


Wildflowers and Wolfsbane

by Accidental_Ducky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, BAMF Allison Argent, BAMF Erica Reyes, BAMF Stiles, Background Peter Hale/Chris Argent - Freeform, Background Scott McCall/Allison Argent - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Deucalion is Dracula, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Prince Stiles Stilinski, Princess Erica Reyes, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Van Helsing AU, past Allison/Erica, these stubborn assholes fall in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-19 11:31:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 42,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13703577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidental_Ducky/pseuds/Accidental_Ducky
Summary: When Derek was dispatched to the monster infested village of Beacon Hills with an order to keep the Prince alive until the vampires could be killed, he never imagined the other man to have so sharp a tongue or a penchant for getting captured.“Why do you refuse to follow any of my orders,” Derek demands, glaring over at the pale man a few feet away from him. Stiles had his hands planted firmly on his hips and the same stubborn set to his jaw that Derek had admired in the portrait he’d seen in the Vatican. Now, however, it just made him want to knock the Prince out and lock him in a closet for an hour, so he could deal with Deucalion in peace.“Because your orders are ridiculous and so are your eyebrows,” Stiles shoots back, practically hissing. Had this not been an argument about the Prince’s safety, then Derek would probably find the flush coloring his cheeks attractive, but, no, he needed to focus.--Or the Van Helsing AU where Derek has to keep Prince Stiles alive and Prince Stiles seems to have a knack for getting kidnapped by vampires.





	1. Shattered

Derek was starting to think he was cursed. What else explains the fact that he has to fight monsters on a regular basis? Why else would he be walking down the damp streets of Paris while evading anyone who might have seen the wanted posters boasting a rough sketch of his face? Because of a curse. Only explanation.

Scowling behind the bandana he had tied around his nose and mouth—it served to keep him from being recognized and it muffled the stench—he tears the poster off the wall and lets it fall to the ground in a crumpled ball. He was half-tempted to pack his bags and run as far as his legs would take him. His conscious wouldn’t let him do that, though, not when he had so much to repent for. An entire lifetime of guilt that he couldn’t even remember beyond hazy nightmares and the searing heat of fire at his back.

He shakes off the guilt for a moment, shoulders squared as he continues to navigate the winding streets. He hadn’t been in Paris in years, fourteen come next June if Cora’s to be believed, but it hadn’t changed too much in his absence. There was the half-finished Eiffel Tower, of course, but the little pub that catered to anyone with money was still open and his sister’s house hadn’t magically changed places, so there was nothing for him to complain about.

As though summoned by his thoughts, Cora stepped out of one of the darker alleys to block his way. “I told you not to follow me,” he reminds her, forcing her to walk with him or get bumped into.

“You also told me Santa Claus was real, so how can I trust you?” His lips twitch in an amused smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Cora, as usual, was dressed in her husband’s clothes with her long hair hidden inside one of Isaac’s hats, the brim wide enough to cast a deep shadow across her face. “What exactly are you hunting tonight?”

“Mad scientist.”

“What has he done to make him wanted by the Vatican?”

“Awful things.”

“Hmm, vague as always. This is why I feel the need to follow you, Der. It’s the only way I get any answers.”

“Does your husband know you’re out?”

“Of course he does. He’s scouring the other half of the city for any sign of our quarry.” Derek rolls his eyes so hard he’s only partly surprised when they don’t fall out, his meddling sister making his job difficult at every turn. It was bad enough when she was his full responsibility, but now he had to deal with her nosey husband as well. “He’ll be pleased to know what we’re looking for.”

“So go and tell him, then. While you’re at it, tell him I said to drag you home and lock the door.” She scoffs, dark eyes flashing yellow as moonlight hits her. It had been cloudy all evening, but now it seemed to be breaking up, revealing twinkling stars and a full moon that made Derek’s neck itch. He resists the urge to shift and rolls his shoulders, constricted slightly by his heavy overcoat.

“D’you hear that?” They come to a stop in perfect unison, Derek trying to focus on what had captured his sister’s attention. It took a moment to block out the usual sounds of houses settling for the night, but then he could make out the scream that was carried on the breeze. _West_ , he realized immediately _, fourth arrondissement_. That was closer to Isaac and the howl that followed let Derek hone in on the wolf’s position.

“Move fast, but don’t shift.” There’s still the _gendarme_ to worry about, patrolling the streets in groups in case they come across the fiend that’s been killing people left and right. The last thing Derek needed was to worry about pulling bullets out of his little sister. Cora, as per the usual, seems to read his mind because she offers up no argument.

Relying on the supernatural grace that comes with being born wolves, the pair make it to Isaac’s side in just under fifteen minutes. The other wolf, bitten by Derek after it was made plain that he never wanted to leave Cora’s side, was kneeling over a body when they reached him.

“She was strangled,” he informs them, straightening up with a half-chewed cigar pinched between his fingers. “The beast was going into the cathedral when I got here.” He nods towards Notre-Dame, a sneer curling his plump lips downward. Isaac was a fine man, his blond curls spilling across his forehead haphazardly in a way Cora adored, muscles cording his lithe form after years of helping to build houses in the city. Derek wasn’t fond of him, but he’d keep his mouth shut considering that Isaac made Cora happy. “What is that thing?”

“A man,” Derek answers. “At least, he used to be. His name is Doctor Henry Jekyll.” That’s all Derek cared to give them, lips pressed into a grim line as he stares up at the darkened church. Cora and Isaac had been married there, pale skin turned pink as sunlight flooded through the rose window. “The Vatican wants him alive.”

“Do you?” Derek says nothing, only heaving a deep sigh before starting forward. Isaac and Cora fell into step with him, one on either side as they entered the church. It was quiet inside, no Parisians to fill it with prayers this late at night. Cora crosses herself, mumbling a quick prayer of forgiveness under her breath for the fight that was about to happen. Derek would probably do the same if he was a religious man, but he’s seen too much suffering to buy into the belief of an all-forgiving God.

He closes his eyes instead, focusing on the sounds of mice in the walls and, higher above their heads, heavy footsteps on creaking wood. “He’s in the belfry, come on.”

“One of these days, Derek, you’ll meet someone just as stubborn as you are and they won’t take kindly to you ordering them around.”

“I’ve been reliably informed that no one is as stubborn as I am.” Isaac snorts as they start up the stairs of the north tower. It was a long way up and the passage was narrow, but the three werewolves make it to the narrow walkway outside that will take them over to the south tower. “Be prepared for anything.”

“He can’t be any worse than you are in the mornings,” Cora remarks with a dry smile.

“He casually tossed me through an entire farmhouse back in Yorkshire.” She arches one fine brow in response and Derek has to fight every instinct in him to roll his eyes. After all, it would only lead to a ten minute lecture on how his face would stick that way if he did it too often. “You’re coming anyway, aren’t you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And you don’t fully believe me, do you?”

“No, I believe you, I just don’t care. Now, are we going to smuggle an abnormally large man into Italy or are we just going to admire the view of the Seine we get from all the way up here?” If Derek had any doubts at all whether sarcasm was a genetically inherited thing, Cora just cleared that right up for him. With a prim little sniff, she turns and leads the way into the south tower, the thick heels of her boots sounding too loud against the old floorboards.

Unlike the one they’d left behind, this tower looked as though no one had been inside it in years. Derek knew that wasn’t accurate, of course, but the thick layer of dust covering everything wasn’t doing anything to prove him wrong. The only things clean in the entire room seemed to be the three bells that were spaced out evenly, larger than Derek ever thought of them being. They’d been in the cathedral for twenty years now, the same age as Cora and just as loud on occasion.

The trio make it to a discarded gargoyle statue when Jekyll swings down to face them with a loud snarl, cigar trapped between nicotine-stained teeth. Derek prides himself on the fact that he didn’t react, the larger man hanging upside down from one of the rafters. Cora, however, _does_ react and her fist is barely an inch from Jekyll’s nose before Isaac could latch onto her wrist.

“Ooh, two big ones and a little one,” Jekyll observes, plucking the cigar out of his mouth. “A meal fit for a king, if I don’t say so myself.”

“Do you really want to have our lives on your conscious,” Cora asks, snatching her hand back. “Why don’t you go downstairs and confess, and we can all call this meeting finished?” Jekyll’s chuckle vibrates through his chest, deep and rumbling as he swings upright so that he’s hanging by one of his arms.

“Your friend hasn’t told you much about me, has he? What’s my tally up to now, Hale?”

“Twelve men, six women, four children, three goats, and an entire henhouse of chickens,” Derek recites, tugging his bandana down. “Did I miss anything?”

“Not by my count.” He holds up his right arm to show a bullet-sized hole in the bicep, moonlight shining through it. It wasn’t bleeding anymore, but it wasn’t healing either, which gave Derek some hope. “Got me pretty good in London, boy.”

“And that was an off day for me. Imagine what I’m capable of when I’m focused and have two other people to assist me.” The boards under his feet creak threateningly when Jekyll drops to the ground, standing a good foot and a half taller than him. “The Knights of the Holy Order have requested that I bring you in alive so that they can extricate your better half.” He allows his gaze to slide from Jekyll’s greasy hair to the cracked nails of his toes and back up again, distaste on display for all the world to see. “However, I’m not disinclined to the idea of bringing you back in pieces. If nothing else, they’ll have your brain to study.”

“I bet they’d love that.” Jekyll puts the cigar out on his own tongue before popping it in his mouth like a child might do to a sweet, swallowing it without so much as a flinch. “And what about your little friends here? Do they have pretty red eyes as well?” Jekyll leaps up again and manages a neat flip that had him landing behind the wolves, snatching Cora’s hat as he went.

“If they show you their eyes, then we’ll have to kill you. Do you still want to see them?” Jekyll grins broadly, settling the hat on his head and fidgeting with it until it fit better than before. There was a thin scar that cut through the right side of his face, his eye a milky white from Derek’s claws just last month. As Jekyll settled his gaze back on the pack, Derek prepared himself for the blow that was coming.

“An interesting proposition, but I have a different one.” And, just as he’d been anticipating, one of Jekyll’s thick arms swing outward without warning, catching Derek in the chest and sending him through the air until his back collided with one of the walls. The ringing of gunshots echoed in the tower, but not even Cora’s impressive aim could slow Jekyll down as he sprinted across the room into darkness.

“Are you alright,” Isaac asks, sparing Derek a brief glance.

“I will be,” he grunts, getting back to his feet. “Where is he? Can you see him?” Isaac’s eyes glow a bright blue for a moment, changing back to their usual darker hue when he turns to look at Derek again.

“In the back. Looks like he’s tensing for another round.”

“This round isn’t over yet.” Derek rejoins the others as Jekyll lets out another yell, appearing a second later as he swings from one rafter to another. Derek doesn’t allow the shift to happen until Jekyll’s too close to back away at the last minute, lunging up from the ground and letting his fangs sink into the tender flesh of the man’s shoulder. With a howl of pain, Jekyll tangled his fingers in Derek’s fur and tosses him aside like he weighed nothing, though he wasn’t prepared for Cora and Isaac jumping on him directly afterward. Isaac lands on top of Derek right as the alpha got back to his feet, forcing him back to the ground with a surprised shout.

“No,” Jekyll whines, almost on the verge of sobbing. Derek glances up to find his sister still clinging valiantly to the man’s back, claws and mouth bloody while one of his arms withers and shrinks on the ground back to its original size.

“I’ll bet that’s upsetting.” Jekyll growls low in his throat, reaching over his shoulder with his only remaining hand to get a good hold on Cora’s coat, gripping it tightly as he spun once and threw her against one of the trapdoors that led to the roof. Because of how close it was and how much force he’d put behind the throw, the wood gave with a loud _crack_ and took Cora with it outside.

“Cora,” Isaac shouts, scrambling to his feet. He lunges forward to tackle Jekyll only to get batted aside like he was little more than a fly, forced to watch as Jekyll jumps up through the hole. Derek stands up, praying that this’ll be the last time he’s knocked to the ground, and begins to climb as well as he can. It takes a bit of finagling, but he manages to get on one of the rafters before jumping up and catching the edge of the hole, digging his fingertips into the damp wood. “Is she okay? Do you see her?”

Derek doesn’t answer, pulling himself up and onto the roof before straightening up again. Jekyll was at the very edge of the cathedral, the claws of a grappling hook sticking out of a hole in his back while he stared down at something on the street. It didn’t take a genius to understand what must have happened and Derek was sprinting even as he figured it out.

“Jekyll,” he yells, tackling the man to the side a moment later.

“How wonderful,” he crows, picking Derek up by the scruff of his neck. “The big brother’s come to watch his baby sister die! You just sit here and wait your turn.” He throws Derek aside and wraps his hand up in the wire, giving it a good yank to make sure it would hold before turning and running towards the other end of the tower.

Derek just waits, watching with a grim satisfaction when Jekyll overbalances and trips over the balustrade, his bulk acting as a counterweight that had Cora soaring back up onto the roof. She lands right beside Derek on the cold tiles, neither of them moving for a good while even as the sound of glass shattering reaches their ears.

It had been a short but tiring fight and he was looking forward to resting after he returned to the Vatican. His bed there was nothing to brag about and the food was even worse, but at least it was warm and only one person there would want to eviscerate him.

Cora rolls onto her side before sitting up and crawling over to the edge, Derek following her a second later. Pink and red glass was scattered on the pavement beneath Jekyll’s shrunken form, the shards glittering in the moonlight in much the same way they did in the early morning.

“Deaton’s going to kill you for letting Jekyll crash through the rose window,” Cora informs him, dropping back to the roof as a crowd began to gather.

“Yeah, but at least Jekyll won’t be causing any more problems.”

Big thank you to [psychedelicbubblegum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychedelicbubblegum) for all the encouragement she gave me while I was writing this AU. You're the best and y'all should definitely go check out her stuff! Also, if you'd like to see some of the outfits I describe in this fic, you can find them [here.](https://www.polyvore.com/wildflowers_wolfsbane/collection?id=7344720)


	2. Bait

Derek groans as he falls face first onto his bed, head throbbing and the muscles in his back on fire. It was always like this once the adrenaline finally left his system, all those little annoying things rushing to the surface and reminding him that he is, in fact, partially human. It was during this time that he usually slept for three days before meeting with the Cardinal, and he was looking forward to a dreamless sleep.

Fate, as usual, was not on his side.

“Derek, you gotta— Oh, uh, sorry.”

“What d’you want, Scott?” The words came out slurred, Derek refusing to lift his head off the pillow. The young friar wasn’t as bad as some of the others, but he had an annoying habit of getting Derek involved in some scheme or another, which almost always ended with the pair of them bruised in some compacity.

“The Cardinal’s requesting to see you. He says it’s important.”

“Tell him to find me on Friday.”

“He said to tell you that he’d surround the kitchen in mountain ash if you didn’t come right away.” Derek groans again, reluctantly sitting up and glaring up at the boy. Well, he wasn’t actually a boy anymore. Scott McCall was twenty-two years old now, a man grown by human standards, and it always took Derek by surprise to see him with stubble and short hair after years of him being nothing but gangly limbs and puppy eyes. “Should I tell him you’re busy?”

“No, I’m coming.” He forces himself back onto his aching feet and follows Scott through the torch-lit hallways until they branched off in three different directions; the one on the left led to the weapons room, the one on the right to the Cardinal’s personal office, and the one straight ahead led to the archives. Derek didn’t even have to stop to think which route to take. While Scott went left—probably working on some invention or another that would end horribly—Derek continued going straight ahead and tried to look as dignified as he could in just a pair of trousers and boots.

“You slipped past me,” the Cardinal says by way of greeting, not looking up from a book. “Should I be impressed or disappointed?”

“Neither, I was just tired. It was a long trip.” Deaton hums his response, setting the book aside and standing up from his desk. He was a few inches shorter than Derek and completely human, but those facts made him no less intimidating. He’d been an emissary when he was younger, but he’d quickly rose up through the ranks and was probably the youngest Cardinal to date with clearance this high.

“I have another mission for you.”

“I just got back.”

“Then think of this as penance for shattering the rose window.” Derek rolls his eyes, wishing his sister had been wrong all those nights ago when she’d warned him. How was he supposed to know that Deaton’s favorite part of Notre-Dame was that stupid window? Hell, it wasn’t even his fault that Jekyll had no sense of balance.

“Where are you sending me now?”

“Have you ever heard of Beacon Hills?” Of course he had, just like every seasoned hunter that had a basic knowledge of the supernatural.

“It’s this tiny village that has more supernatural beings popping up than they know what to do with. No hunter goes there since the ruling family handles it all personally.” He shrugs, not seeing why Deaton was suddenly interested in it. Derek had ridden through it a time or two to reach other destinations and the looks he’d received from the villagers hadn’t exactly been reassuring.

“Then you know that it’s being lorded over by Count Deucalion.” Derek’s head snaps up at that, the name ringing a faint bell. A niggling voice in his head said that he should know that name, that he should recognize the long-haired man in the portrait that was projected onto the wall. The man was tall and proud, boasting dark hair that framed his square-shaped face; not too bad looking, but Derek had seen better in his travels.

“Deucalion?”

“Yes, this’ll be one for the books. Our story begins over four hundred years ago when a knight named Stilinski the Elder promised God that his family would never rest or enter Heaven until they vanquished Deucalion from their lands. They have not yet succeeded and their line is growing thin. His descendent, Noah Stilinski, disappeared nearly twelve months ago.” The picture changes to show a new man with dark blond hair, baring scars from battle and a grim expression. It was a man that was close to a breakdown, just one thread away from spiraling.

“No trace of him?”

“None at all.” The picture changes again to show a beautiful woman with blonde curls, her lips curved into a pout and her eyes half-lidded. “His eldest child, Princess Erica, and his son, Prince Mik- Uh, Miec- um…” The Cardinal struggled a moment, like he couldn’t quite get the name out. Derek didn’t mind it, he was too busy studying the stubborn set to the Prince’s jaw, how his neck arched and joined the broad slope of his shoulders beneath a simple tunic.

“Shall I ask him his name when I arrive?”

“You’d have better luck getting it right that way.” Deaton sighs, scratching at the back of his neck. “If you can’t help them kill Deucalion before the entire line is vanquished, then nine generations of their family will be stuck in Purgatory forever. That doesn’t sound pleasant, does it?”

“Not at all.” Deaton continues as he takes a scroll from one of the monks, rolling it open to reveal a scrap of parchment that had been torn along the top. “Stilinski the Elder left this in our protection, but he never revealed its purpose. Can you read it?” Derek squints down at the writing, but he’d never picked up on Latin the way he had French or English.

“Something about doors being left ajar,” he tries, making a face when the Cardinal promptly slapped the back of his head.

“I knew you weren’t doing your lessons all those years ago.”

“In my defense, you kept sending me out to deal with wendigos and purple monsters that eat people.” Deaton makes a noise that Derek knew meant he was seconds away from breaking out the mountain ash, so he wisely diverts the subject. “So, what is it supposed to say?”

“ _In the name of God, open this door_. I suppose you weren’t entirely off the mark this time, but you really should brush up between missions.” Derek bites his lip to keep from saying anything, knowing his coffee privileges would be revoked otherwise. “Here’s something I think you’ll find interesting.” Deaton pulls the scroll open further, revealing an insignia of four long lines forming swirls.

“I know that marking.” He holds out his left hand to prove it, staring down with slight wonder at the signet ring he’s been wearing for ages. He’d had it when he first stumbled into the church at least twenty years ago and now here it was on some old parchment that was four hundred years old.

“Perhaps you’ll find some answers in Beacon Hills.”

“Yeah, or more questions.” His gaze drifts back to the portrait of the Stilinski Prince, the other man’s brown eyes seeming to look right at him. It was ridiculous, he knew that, but the wolf inside him reacted all the same and goosebumps broke out along his bare arms. Deaton pats him on the back reassuringly, hand warm and gentle despite the callouses that had formed after years of working.

“Take Scott with you, it’ll be good for him and it’ll keep me from breaking the fifth commandment.”

**~::*::~**

When Stiles woke up that morning, he’d hoped the most exciting thing to happen would be his sister making a warm breakfast that wasn’t oatmeal. At the very least, he’d hoped for some sunlight. He ended up getting neither of those things, which wasn’t exactly surprising in the slightest.

No, what Stiles got was clean clothes thrown at his head and an order to be dressed and ready to move out in an hour. Let it never be said that Erica wasn’t their father’s child all over, sharing the same singlemindedness to complete a task. Well, that and the blonde hair, she definitely got that from their father.

Now here they were, standing in the middle of the woods and hiding in the bushes while Erica stood in the middle of the clearing with her hands tied to a post. She had explained the idea to the usual group of hunters as they rode out that morning, deciding that today was the day that they killed the werewolf terrorizing their village and the only way that was possible was to make it seem as though Erica had been left for dead.

As the fog continued to roll in off the sea, Stiles was beginning to think that they would have no such luck. They’d been out for nearly five hours now, waiting with baited breaths, but there had been no sign of the slobbering beast that loved to eat the fieldworkers. He was just about to head over to his sister when he heard the faint rustle of dead leaves. His muscles tense as he waits, brown eyes locking on a patch of bushes several feet away.

A muted roar seemed to echo from all directions, but Stiles can make out a flash of brown fur and then the limbs of a tree shaking as the werewolf began to climb. Stiles has met some werewolves before and most of them were fairly nice, but this one had no control. This one was as close to rabid as an animal could get without foaming at the mouth and, to really top it off, it was controlled by Deucalion.

In a flash of movement, the wolf was jumping to the ground in the same instant that Erica flipped up and onto the post, balancing with a dancer’s grace even as the loose skirt of her dress fanned out in a brilliant show of reds and oranges. The wolf’s claws gouge the wood when it jumps again, Erica quickly grabbing hold of the vine-covered rope overhead and bringing her knees up to avoid being scratched.

“Get her up,” Stiles demands, not wanting to tear his gaze away from his older sister.

“I’m trying,” the villager snaps, struggling with the lever that controlled the pulley system. “It’s stuck, I swear.” Much like the rest of his family, Stiles wasn’t able to rest until a task was finished, drawing his sword and striding purposefully into the clearing. He’d be damned if he let his sister die like some kind of beast.

“Help get her up!” He shoves one of the men towards the lever, the others making a path once they saw the steely light in his eyes. He wasn’t going to be set aside this time, not when he could help save at least one person.

“Cut the rope,” Erica shouts, kicking out at the wolf. “Stiles, stay back!”

“No, I’m done staying back while you and our father do all the work!” Just because he was younger didn’t mean he was any less trained and, by God, he was going to help this time. “Hey,” he yells, not flinching as cold blue eyes turn to him,” pick on someone your own size!” The wolf lets out a low growl, baring sharp fangs that glistened with slobber.

“Cut the fucking rope, Argent!” The wolf leaps at him, but misjudged the distance as the ground beneath his clawed feet gives way, sending him tumbling down into the wolfsbane-laced iron cage hidden by leaves and earth. Stiles lets out a breath when he hears the _snick_ of steel connecting with wood, the counterweight falling to the ground as the cage was pulled upwards.

“Swing to your right!” Erica obeys more out of instinct than anything, errant curls billowing when the cage surges up just a hairsbreadth from her. Now all they had to do was prey that Erica could get a good shot as she settles herself on a tree branch, left hand still tangled around the rope as a failsafe in case she loses her balance. “Hurry, Erica!” The sack inside the cage was bulging dangerously as the werewolf twisted and turned, trying its best to break free and sate its bloodlust.

“I’m trying,” Erica snaps, hand shaking as she pulls the pistol free from the holster at her back. “This isn’t exactly an easy task, Stiles!” Stiles bites back another comment about how she was the one that had decided what everyone’s positions would be. He would’ve gladly taken her place as bait, but she’d given him the same look as their father when he’d suggested it. _You’re the youngest_ , she had said, echoing Noah’s words to a tee, _you’re our best hope to keep our line going_.

“Erica, deep breaths,” Chris advises, coming to stand protectively in front of Stiles. The older man had been their father’s best friend and he’d taken up the role of the childrens’ protector as easily as one might pull on a cloak. “If you don’t calm down, you’ll have a fit.” Her fits were violent things and they still managed to scare Stiles senseless, and not even Erica—strong, determined, _stubborn_ Erica—could survive a fall from that height if she had a seizure.

“I’m trying.” To her credit, her voice remained firm as she breathed in deeply through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. Slowly, her hand stopped its shaking and she was able to aim the pistol easier. “Get him back just in case.” Chris puts a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, but he doesn’t make him leave. Erica sucks in a breath and holds it, finger curling around the trigger and squeezing right as a loud _crack_ echoed in the clearing.

Stiles wasn’t sure what had happened at first, mind blanking until Erica’s belated shout and Chris’ hold on his shoulder turned into a harsh shove. _The branch_ , he realizes with wide eyes. It hadn’t been able to hold her weight after all and now she was swinging wildly by one arm, the cage a tangled mess on the ground, and her pistol missing. _The bullet cut right through the rope_.

 _“Stiles, run!”_ He didn’t move at first, but then Chris was shoving him even harder and his legs obeyed before his mind caught up with them. Stiles didn’t bother following any one path, just focusing on escaping as the crashing of twigs and leaves grew louder behind him, catching up at an alarming rate. He bows his head to avoid the branches of pine trees slapping him in the face, lungs burning as he cut to the left onto a path that was half-buried with brown leaves.

It’s not until he nearly stumbles over the edge of a cliff that he stops, chest heaving as he turns to face his fate. He squares his shoulders and tightens his hold on his sword, nervous energy making him vibrate as he waited for the werewolf to appear. He knew it was coming, had practically felts its putrid breath on the back of his neck.

“Come on,” he yells at the trees. The wait was always the worst thing about hunting, which was probably why his father had always hesitated before allowing Stiles to come along. If it was just him and Erica, he didn’t have to worry about Stiles fidgeting and scaring away deer that would make perfectly good steaks for supper. “Come and face me, you bastard!”

There was another tense moment before the wolf leaped out of the trees, chest bared for Stiles’ sabre. He grits his teeth, the three seconds seeming to stretch out for hours; the wolf just a foot away from the naked steel, Erica crashing into his side, the sound of a bullet tearing through flesh and muscle, and then Erica’s strangled scream as she and the wolf tumble over the edge and into the water.

Stiles swallows hard as he crawls over to stare down at the rippling water so far below, too far for anyone to survive no matter how determined they were. At the very least, bones would shatter upon hitting the water and wounds like those, the bad ones, didn’t tend to heal well enough even if a physician was on-hand.

It’s Allison that finds Stiles there hours later, not saying anything as she knelt by his side and pressed a warm hand between his shoulder blades. Allison was great like that, knowing when people just needed comfort instead of empty condolences that couldn’t resurrect his family. They stay like that a moment longer before he allows his best friend to pull him to his feet, leaning on her as they start the long walk back to the village.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Stiles swears,” and I’m gonna make it hurt.”


	3. Hauntings

Stiles wasn’t surprised to find Chris standing in the dining room once he and Allison returned home, hands busy sharpening the dagger he always carried. Stiles knew that there was wolfsbane mixed in with the steel, the blade tinted a light purple from the ritual that the blacksmith had done. Chris always sharpened the blade after a werewolf hunt and Stiles never questioned the impulse. His wife had been killed when Stiles and Allison were still kids, Victoria protecting a young banshee that had gotten lost in the woods.

Allison’s lips twitch downward in a frown, but she doesn’t say anything. Truth be told, she barely remembered her mother and she was too afraid of how her father would react to ask about her. Stiles was lucky in that regard, he could recall his mother with perfect clarity, the way she’d told him stories when he couldn’t sleep at night or just cuddled him when he was having a fit.

Claudia had been an amazing mother until Stiles was ten or so, a fever sweeping away all traces of kindness and turning her into a shell of the woman she’d once been before she died a year later. He tried to forget those last few months, ones where she would throw things at him or try to beat him because she thought he was some sort of Changeling. Erica hadn’t been afraid, though, she’d stepped in and thrown things right back at the woman with her head held high.

 _You don’t ever touch him again_ , she’d snarled one night, standing in front of Stiles and not even flinching when a hairbrush connected with her middle. _You don’t get to hurt my brother!_ And just like he remembered Erica’s words, he remembered his mother’s and the way their world had seemed to splinter. Turns out Claudia wasn’t Erica’s mother, that Erica was born from a passing attraction and poor chaperoning, but she was no less a Stilinski for it.

Stiles shakes those thoughts away, focusing instead on the way snow was beginning to fall outside. The cobblestones would be covered in white come morning and it would make work all the harder. Romanian winters were a sight to behold, as hard as the people who lived there. _I’ll have to scrounge up some extra wood for my room tonight to keep from freezing_. He grimaces at the thought of heading to the woodshed outside, but it needed to be done and he’s never felt comfortable with delegating chores.

“Where are you going,” Allison asks as he starts for the servant’s entrance of the room. It was the shortest route to the other end of the manor house and, right now, it would be empty of everyone. Most of the staff lived in the village and left just before nightfall, old superstitions and a fear of retribution from the vampires making the staff wary of the Stilinski family.

“To get some wood.”

“You shouldn’t be out there by yourself tonight. Who knows what that bastard has planned.”

“You make it sound like the woodshed is fifty miles from the house.” She makes a face, jaw clenching as she crosses her arms over her chest. Allison, dressed in tight breeches and a simple tunic, looked more like a warrior from old stories than the scared woman Stiles knew her to be, and he loved her all the more for her bravery. “I’ll be fine, Ally.”

“I can’t hear you from all the way in here.” He lowers his head a moment, fighting back a fond smile before meeting her gaze again. That spirit is what drew her and Erica to one another, a bond that not even death would shatter because siblings always had that love to ground them. “Please, just—” Stiles cuts her off by raising his hand, not saying anything until her lips were pursed.

“Get some rest and I’ll come by your room before I head to bed.” It had been a long morning and an even longer afternoon and Stiles really just wanted to collapse somewhere warm. He’d prefer his bed, but he was open to anything at this point even if it was just near a woodstove with hay for his pillow. “I promise, okay?”

“Fine.” It seemed to take every shred of control she had not to follow after him and Stiles would take that as a win for the night, shuffling off through the darkened passageway. The iron sconces were cold, the kindling and bits of wood inside them burnt black and cool to the touch. The staff must have only come up long enough to whip up a quick dinner or they just didn’t bother using the servant’s halls, not that Stiles was complaining.

His footsteps echo off the old stones, the heels of his boots clicking faintly as he follows a gentle bend to the right and then straight ahead to a door that should probably be replaced before the winter storms blow in. The hinges protest loudly when he opens the door, rusted despite everyone’s best efforts to keep things in top shape. It was hard to do that in a manor this large, practically a castle compared to the houses of the village.

The snow was falling harder as he stepped outside, collecting in the eaves and along the bare branches of the trees surrounding the manor on three sides. Stiles keeps his head down and runs to the shed, deeply regretting not grabbing his overcoat before he left the warmth of the manor.

“You’re going to freeze if you leave like that in the morning,” a smooth voice reminds him as he steps inside. Peter was situated in the corner of the shed, right in front of the stack of wood. He was dressed in clothes that had gone out of style a decade ago, but it wasn’t like he could go to a tailor and request something more modern. “And, take it from the expert, that’s not the best experience. Quite frankly, it hurts.”

“So I’ve heard,” Stiles replies. “About fifty times now, I think.” He ignores Peter’s squawk of indignation as he reaches through the shade in order to reach a few logs, carefully piling them up in his arms.

“Hey! That’s just bad manners!”

“Says the dead guy that spies on people.”

“That was one time and how was I supposed to know you weren’t alone?” Stiles’ cheeks heat up in a dark blush that he blamed on the cold, not really wanting to remember the night in question. “Not that I’m disapproving, of course. The man you brought home was gorgeous and I’m sure you would have had a wonderful time if I hadn’t sneezed and he hadn’t… Y’know, ran off screaming in complete terror.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t have the priest do an exorcism after that.” Peter finally moves out of the way, rubbing his stomach with a frown.

“That man of yours looked awfully familiar, though. Maybe something about his cheekbones?” Peter makes a noise that Stiles can translate as him thinking deeply, a sort of growl that had stuck with the dead werewolf. “Are you leaving already?”

“As you pointed out, I need to get inside before I freeze.”

“I was joking. I didn’t actually _freeze_ to death.” Stiles pauses in the doorway, looking back at Peter with raised brows. He could never get the real story from any of the adults about what happened to the other man and Stiles didn’t feel comfortable asking him. Maybe this would be the night Peter told the truth, something less dramatic than fighting off fifty bears with only a sharp stick, but more dramatic than getting lost in a blizzard. “Ah well, it doesn’t matter now.”

“Are you staying out here all night?”

“Hell no, I’m coming inside where it’s warm. Where’s Erica?” Stiles flinches and fills the ghost in on the way back to the dining room. By the time Stiles has fed some more wood into the main fireplace, Peter’s shaking with barely controlled rage and his eyes are a vivid Forget-Me-Not blue. “I’ll kill him,” Peter growls around his fangs, the glass panes in the windows vibrating with his anger.

“That’s the plan.” Stiles grabs the rest of the wood and heads upstairs, dropping off a small pile outside Chris’ door before moving down the hall to Allison’s room. “Did… Did you-know-who have something to do with how you died?” Peter closes his eyes, fangs slowly retracting back into dull human teeth and eyes back to their usual dark blue when he opens them again. The rage is still there, though, Stiles can feel it simmering just under the surface.

“No, that was Chris’ father.” Stiles would love to say that was a shock, but Gerard Argent had been as crazy as he’d been old and not even his son missed him once his throat had been torn out a few years ago. Chris’ sister had vanished soon after, gone to torment some other village or eat small children—whatever it was that disgusting hags were up to these days. “Perhaps you and I will have a long talk about it one day. For now, however, I have a manor to haunt.”

“Do me a favor and don’t rattle any chains tonight.” Peter gives a look of offense, pressing his hand over his stilled heart.

“You wound me, sir.” Stiles just arches a dark brow and the ghost frowns, sulking. “Fine, but it really throws off my routine when I don’t have the chains.” Peter shimmers for a moment before disappearing, no doubt raiding the kitchen for anything sweet that the serving maid might have left behind. Stiles just grins tiredly and pushes open his friend’s door.

Allison was sound asleep when he walked in, sprawled out on a pile of blankets near the fireplace. He does his best to be quiet, feeding a few logs to the dimming flames before carrying Allison over to her bed. She makes a noise as he lays her down, his limbs going rigid until she sighs and rolls onto her stomach, a truly impressive snore leaving her a second later.

 _At least some things never change_.


	4. Arriving

The village of Beacon Hills was exactly like Derek remembered it, bustling in the early afternoon as farmers and traders sold their wares in the village center. It couldn’t be called a market place, it was too small for that, but the villagers were doing the best that they could. Most, if not all, were sending him and Scott suspicious glares, like they were just waiting for the other shoe to drop and the strangers to reveal themselves as monsters who devour children.

Derek doesn’t lower his head, but he doesn’t make eye contact much either, trying to ride the thin line between hostile and unassuming. Scott, on the other hand, is smiling freely and looking like an excited puppy as he had since they first left Italy behind them a few weeks ago. It was his first time out of the Abbey and normally Derek wouldn’t mind his wide-eyed wonder, but this wasn’t the type of village that welcomed that behavior.

“Eyes down,” Derek advises quietly, knowing the young beta would hear him. “You only look up when you have to around here, Scott.”

“But why?” Scott keeps his voice just as quiet, but he’s still openly gazing around.

“Because these people trust us about as far as they can throw us. Just trust me, alright?” He was careful not to snap, knowing Scott reacted better to kindness than anything. The kid beside him dips his head in a nod, lowering his gaze to the muddy cobblestones. The snowfall was nearly a blizzard by the time they had reached the borders of Romania and it was a miracle that they reached Beacon Hills at all considering its location just beyond the Carpathian Mountains.

“Have you ever stayed here before?”

“No, just passed through.” But something, a small voice at the back of his mind, was screaming that everything was too familiar for him to have just passed through. There was a constant thrumming in his veins that seemed to get more noticeable the further into the village they went. _Turn left up that path and you’ll find a house near the woods_. Derek’s eyes follow the winding path, barely visible, to the empty space where that voice said a house should be.

“Can I help you boys,” a new voice asks, startling Derek out of his thoughts. The man was tall and bald, almost barrel-chested and corded with muscles. “Maybe give you some directions? I hear Transylvania’s nice this time of year.”

“No thanks,” Derek responds,” I’m not a big fan of Hungary.” The stranger’s lips twist down into a vicious frown, bones shifting slightly beneath the tanned flesh of his biceps. _Wolf_. “I’m looking for a pair of siblings, maybe you’ve heard of them—”

“I doubt you know anyone from here,” a girl speaks up, coming to stand next to the much larger man. She wore a nice dress in shades of dark gray and blue, dark curls held back by the bright orange scarf she was using as a headband. The subtle change in Scott’s scent made Derek’s lip curl, the cloying smell of attraction unwanted in the hostile situation. “It’s best you just keep moving.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Let’s just say that strangers don’t last long here.”

“From what I’ve read, neither do the people that have been raised here.” And, yeah, it probably wasn’t the smartest decision to let his sarcastic side come to the surface, but it’s not like he was going to let himself be run out of town. The girl’s entire frame seems to tense, tendons straining against the pale column of her throat. “Where’s the Prince and Princess?”

“Not here.”

“Why do I have trouble believing that?”

“I don’t care.” She moves forward, not hesitating to stand toe-to-toe with Derek with her hands lax at her sides. This close, he could see that she was athletic, muscles hinting towards actual training instead of just helping with animals or chores around her house. This one was human, though, so he didn’t worry too much about her. “In case you couldn’t tell by the gathering crowd holding all kinds of weapons, you two aren’t welcome here.”

“I don’t think that’s for you to decide. Where’s the Princess?”

“She’s dead,” a man says, the crowd parting to let him through. Even if Derek hadn’t seen the painting, he’d know the man—little more than a teenager, really—was the Prince. The way he carried himself, his shoulders squared and chin tilted up, all spoke to a formal training that even his simple clothes couldn’t dim. And, boy, did he fill out his clothes; a simple blue tunic that neatly matched the girl’s dress, boots that reached his knees, and the tightest pair of breeches Derek has ever seen. “Or did you not get that message in Italy?”

“You know who I am?”

“Deaton told me you were on your way, but I was hoping your ship would capsize in the Adriatic. I guess I can chalk it up as another wish that didn’t come true.” The man comes to a stop a foot or so away from the girl, long fingers wrapping around her elbow and tugging gently until she was closer to his side than Derek’s.

“So you know why we’re here?”

“I know that you’re not needed. Take a look around the village and you’ll understand.” A good few of the villagers surrounding them weren’t entirely human—a few born wolves, some bitten, and a pretty red-haired woman that smelled like graveyard dirt even if her hands and dress were perfectly clean. “You understand now?”

“Werewolves,” Scott supplies, shrugging as though they weren’t at the center of a mob. “I know I should probably be intimidated, but this is so neat. I didn’t know there could be this many wolves living in one place without an alpha.” _Except there is an alpha, he just likes parading around as a beta_. The Prince’s gaze swings to the young beta, features softening as he takes in Scott’s open curiosity. “Hi, I’m Scott.”

“Stiles,” the man says. _Is that seriously the name Deaton kept tripping over? There’s not even an M in that_. “Look, you two have no reason to be here. We can handle this.” Derek’s eyes flick to the leaden sky overhead, a few wispy shapes seeming to appear out of the clouds. He wasn’t sure what they were at first, they kept twisting and disappearing, but then his eyes widened at a glint of fangs.

“I think you should reevaluate that,” Derek says, nodding at the approaching harpies. Stiles and the girl turn as one, the girl pushing him further into the crowd and drawing a knife in one smooth motion.

“Vampires! Everybody get inside! Get the children out of here!” Even struggling against the tide of panicking villagers, Stiles managed to draw a sabre with a wickedly sharp blade tinted purple. “If you two are so hellbent on helping out, then get moving and do something!”

“I expect a drink after this is over.” Stiles rolls his eyes, turning his attention to the vampires baring down on them. There were only three of them as far as he could tell, gray-skinned with an impressive wingspan that the Cardinal would love to study, but Derek was more focused on the fact that they all seemed to be heading straight for the Prince. He lunges forward and shoves Stiles out of the way in time for sharp claws to dig into his shoulders instead and toss him aside. “Ahh,” he groans, rolling onto his back,” maybe two drinks.”

Derek had just got back to his feet again when Stiles was picked up, a vampire’s talons digging into the meat of his shoulders and hauling him off his feet. Stiles was doing some impressive flailing, his sabre lying forgotten on the ground where he’d dropped it in surprise. The werewolf begins a dead sprint, using the well to give him some added height as he jumped, grabbing the Prince’s ankles. The vampire, a bronze-haired female with a hateful sneer, couldn’t handle the added weight and was forced to let them both go.

While it hurt bad enough to land by oneself, Derek quickly learned that the landing was even rougher when you had 147 pounds of royalty landing on your chest. The pair stared at each other in shock at first, Derek taking a moment to note that the Prince’s eyes were more liquid amber than the light brown the painting had suggested, then he was flipping them over so that the Prince was beneath him instead.

“Get out of sight until this is over,” he orders sternly.

“Stop being such an idiot,” Stiles snarls back, wrapping one toned leg around Derek’s and flipping them once more. Derek latches onto Stiles’ leg before he could move too far, sending the younger man to the ground again.

“They’re trying to kill you! Just go into one of the cottages!” Stiles huffs, kicking at Derek’s fingers until the wolf is forced to let him go so he could scramble back to his feet. “Are all Princes this damn stubborn?”

“You should see him on a bad day,” the girl from earlier grumbles. Her cheeks were flushed a dark red from the cold, the blade of her knife slick with black blood as she comes to stand next to him. “Scott said to give this to you.” She hefts up the silver crossbow Scott had insisted on bringing, gas-propelled with the bolts stored like one might store bullets in a revolver.

“Thanks, I guess.” She shrugs, throwing the knife with an ease that spoke more of instinct than anything, the steel burying itself deep in the stomach of an approaching vampire. The black-haired thing jerks to the side with a hiss, spiraling back into the air and tossing the dagger into the well. “Does this sort of thing happen often?”

“At least once a month.” The girl looks at something over her shoulder and rolls her eyes, sprinting off without saying anything else. Derek was happy to let her go, eyes scanning the crowd until he could find Stiles pushing his way towards the old chapel. He had something clutched against his chest, a squirming bundle that Derek was able to recognize as a toddler that probably wasn’t any older than three or four.

Content that the Prince was finally doing something smart like hiding, Derek allows himself to focus on the circling vampires again.  He flashes his eyes at the closest one, taking in the way the thing’s eyes flashed a bright brown in return, nearly the same shade of bronze as her hair. _Just pull the trigger and hold on_ , Scott had said back in the Abbey and Derek sincerely hoped the crossbow wouldn’t misfire as he brought it up against his shoulder. Once he had the vampire between the crosshairs, he holds his breath and squeezes the trigger, not expecting the hard kick that drove his shoulder back sharply or the round of bolts that shot out rapidly. His only consolation was the fact that one bolt shot straight through the vampire’s wing.

“It works,” he mutters in surprise, staring down at his new favorite weapon. In the spirit of honesty, the crossbow’s probably the first thing Scott’s invented that didn’t maim the person wielding it (and, holy God, Derek’s been wounded more times than he can remember, though that’s probably because of all the concussions). “Scott, it actually works!” Scott looks up from digging through his weapons bag, shooting Derek a bright grin.

“Look out!” Derek glances to the left in time to have Stiles thrown into him again, though Derek actually stayed on his feet this time around. “We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”

“I thought you were in the church.”

“I was, but then I came back out to fight once I knew my godson was safe.” Stiles looks up at him like he’s doubting the werewolf’s intelligence. “What kind of Prince would I be if I didn’t fight for my people?”

“One that stayed alive!” Derek pushes Stiles behind him and fires off another succession of bolts, the metal singing through the air and embedding in various roofs as the vampires fly higher out of range. “Why can’t you just let me do my job?”

“Because it’s not your job!” Stiles’ eyes widen and then he’s grabbing the front of Derek’s overcoat, pulling his down sharply without any sort of warning.

“What the hell?”

“For a monster hunter, you’re doing a poor job of hunting the actual monsters. Aleera almost took your head off.” Derek turns in his crouch, gazing up at the sky where the red-haired vampire was cackling wickedly. “They’re his brides.” Stiles lowers his eyes to the snow-covered ground, shaking hands clenched tightly into fists. “All three of them worked at my home until Deucalion convinced them to marry him and check their humanity at the door.”

“Why would they abandon your family like that?” It made no sense to Derek how anyone could leave their pack behind. Promise of power or not, surely full-blooded humans had a little more loyalty than all that.

“They didn’t want to be prey anymore, I guess.” He shrugs, then points up at the vampires circling once more, sometimes obscured by the heavy clouds. “The one with black hair is Verona and the brown-haired one is Marishka, she used to be my nanny.” There was genuine pain in his eyes and some distant part of Derek wanted to crush the vampire under his heel for causing it.

“Is that why you haven’t actually tried to kill them yet? Just injure them in places you know will heal fast.” That seemed to take Stiles by surprise and it occurred to Derek that he probably didn’t even know he was holding back. It must be a subconscious thing, that same innate need to _protect_ that had him out in the thick of the fight even though his death would mean trapping his family forever in Purgatory.

“I don’t—”

“Could you two build up the romantic tension when there aren’t vampires trying to kill us all,” the girl shouts, standing a few feet away with a recurve bow in hand. She wielded it as expertly as she had the dagger, though where she found the damn thing was anyone’s guess.

“There’s always some kind of monster trying to kill us, Allison, it’s kind of something I’ve grown used to at this point.” But Stiles was still moving, sabre sheathed at his hip and bouncing against his leg when he joined her. “Wait, where’d they go?” Derek takes a moment to listen, trying to find something that wasn’t the rapid thumping of human hearts or whimpering children.

“I don’t know.” He stands slowly and joins them in the center of the village, looking around for the vampires and finding none. “Did they leave for the day?”

“That’d be too easy for us.” The pair share a look, obviously on edge at the thought of the vampires hiding somewhere in the village. “Derek, do you hear them?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Scott?” The beta shakes his head as well, limping over to stand on Allison’s left. His shirt had four long scratches along the side of it, blood staining the white fabric and the side of his neck. “Allison, take Stiles back to his house and don’t let him out.” The girl snorts—fucking _snorts_ —and looks at Derek like he was some kind of invalid. To tell the truth, it was kind of insulting that these people kept giving him that same look whenever he made suggestions. “What?”

“He’d find a way out within five minutes,” Allison remarks. Stiles nods with a lazy smile, seemingly oblivious to the dark red splotch along his cheek and temple. _That’s going to bruise_ , Derek knows, _all the more reason to get the human out of here_.

“Then sit on him.”

“That’s not going to work, he’d just bite me.” Stiles snaps his teeth together for emphasis, pearly white and strong. Derek opened his mouth to argue, but the sky was growing dark again and a cackling laugh seemed to split the air as the three vampires shot up out of the well. None of their group had time to react as the red-head, Aleera, wrapped sharp talons around one of Stiles’ wrists, jerking him off the ground with another high laugh.

“Son of a bitch,” the man yelled, digging blunt nails into the gray flesh of Aleera’s leg. The vampire shrieks and lets him go, Stiles plummeting towards the ground only to get jerked upwards once more when Verona caught the back of his trousers. Allison drew the string until the fletching of her arrow brushed her cheek, releasing it with a satisfied sound as the arrow tore through the vampire’s ankle. “Shitshitshit _shit!”_

Stiles hit the roof so hard that even Derek winced, though the wolf’s attention quickly turned to the brown-haired vampire swooping towards him. “Keep Marishka busy and I can kill her.”

“How,” Scott demands.

“Shift.” Derek feels the subtle crack and shift of his bones, the world around him growing taller and red-tinted. Scott followed suit, only managing a half-shift before he was forced to jump and bat the vampire away as Allison readied her bow again. Derek and Scott work in tandem, keeping Marishka distracted and not letting her fly off too far. The only real downside to the plan was not being able to keep an eye on Stiles.

Scott latches onto her wing and tosses her against the side of a building, the wood caving in around her. “Did it work?” His words are slightly garbled around teeth too big for his mouth, but Allison shook her head all the same. Marishka came barreling out a second later, skin a golden tan and dressed in such a way that the nuns would faint. “Wait, where’d she—” The vampire backhands Scott hard enough to send him flying through the air, the stall he lands on cracking and dumping his limp form to the ground.

“Marishka, stop this.”

“Why should I,” the vampire asks, nonchalant as she paces in front of the house. “I serve my master and he pampers me in return. You should have said yes when he proposed to you.”

“I have standards. I don’t sleep with people who have no pulse.” Marishka laughs, a high tinkling sound like water over smooth stones. “We used to love you, all of us did. Do you know how much it hurt when you showed up after being gone for two months and the first thing you did was go for Erica’s throat?”

“Aw, that’s why you’re really crying. Mourning the loss of your blonde lover, or perhaps all the special treatment she gave you. Like that pretty scarf you have.” Derek saw the grief burning in Allison’s eyes, but her hands were steady and she never once lowered her bow. “Don’t worry, sweet one, you’ll see her again in a moment.” Marishka’s clothes dissolved into the ugly gray flesh, wings carrying her off the ground in the same instant that Allison lets her arrow fly. The point of it pins Marishka to the roof of a house, the wooden shaft speared through the left side of her chest.

“I’ll mourn you, too, Marishka.” Twin wails forced Derek to shift back to his human form and cover his ears with a wince, watching over his hunched shoulder as Aleera and Verona flew out of sight. “Ennis, go and find Stiles.” There was no answer from the other were and Allison let out a soft sigh in response.

“What,” Scott asks, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s only one reason Ennis wouldn’t be telling me not to order him around.” And Derek doesn’t have to guess, spotting the older wolf—the alpha—lying a few yards away, half hidden behind a cart of apples with a pool of blood staining the snow beneath him.

“I’ll go after him.” Allison nods her thanks, dark eyes trained on Marishka. She was snarling and thrashing, but unable to get free, the skin around the wound turning black. “Here, try some holy water.”

“Make sure he knows we’re all okay.”

Derek takes the proffered flask from his beta and pours some over one of Allison’s arrows, taking her bow from her steady hand and firing another shot; the arrow hit right beside the other, driving in deep and making the vampire breathe in sharply. Marishka was hyperventilating, fingers curling into her palms as black fissures spread over her body, gray flesh falling away like ashes and bones collapsing in on themselves with one last howl.

“I think I’ll join you for that drink.”


	5. Traditions

To say the Stilinski household was more akin to a castle than a small manse was an understatement; massive stone blocks made up the majority of it with some wooden support beams and a bit of iron worked in. There were a few tapestries hanging from the walls, likely an added barrier against the frigid cold outside, and fine rugs from Paris and Turkey, though the paintings he saw looked to have originated from Poland.

“How do you keep from getting lost in this place,” Scott asks, staring around in obvious wonderment. The Abbey was bigger than the manor, but Scott had grown up there alongside his mother and knew all of its hiding places by the time he was six (Derek should know, Melissa had used him as her personal bloodhound to sniff the mischievous boy out more than once).

“I did a lot of exploring when I was a kid,” Stiles answers, shooting the beta a fond smile. And if Derek felt a prickle of jealousy to have that quirking of lips directed at somebody else, well, that was his business. “I think Chris had to dig me out of a tunnel once.” The hunter in question did something complicated with his eyebrows and Derek half-wondered if Chris had some Hale bloodlines because surely eyebrows that expressive were genetic.

“Hey, I had the same thing happen with me and Derek.” Now it’s Derek’s turn to make the complicated eyebrow expression and Chris pats his shoulder sympathetically. “My mom basically locked me in my room for a month after that.” Stiles winces, staring down at the dark blue tattoo that wound around his left wrist and up to his elbow, two crisscrossing lines that resembled vines with purple Anemone buds spaced around them. Derek hadn’t noticed it before, what with all the vampires, but now the sleeves of his tunic were rolled up and the pale skin was revealed. “Are… Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m great.” The sarcasm was hard to miss, and Stiles scrubs a hand over his face when he notices the way Scott shrinks into himself. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so rude to my guests.” He leads the way into a room filled with weapons, a few straw targets set up at one end of the room with tears and gaps in places from Allison’s arrows. “This is where Chris trains us, you’re both welcome to use this room anytime you want while you’re here.” Because he’d finally realized the wolves weren’t leaving until Deucalion was ashes six feet under the ground.

“Not bad,” Derek comments, reaching out to run the pad of his finger along the sharpened edge of a throwing axe. “How often do you train?”

“At least three hours everyday for me and more than that for Ally. Something about a traditional education for young hunters.” Hazel eyes flick to Chris and his daughter again, taking in the silver medallion the woman sported that was mostly hidden beneath the collar of her dress. _Argents_. The name brought a surge of anger to the surface and Derek actually struggled not to flash his eyes at the pair. It took him by surprise since he’d never even met either of them before today, so the reaction shouldn’t have been so strong.

“Some traditions shouldn’t be broken,” Chris says, giving the Prince a soft smile. “You of all people should know this, Stiles.” Stiles looks at the tattoo again, circling his wrist with long, pale fingers as though the ink would fade if he only squeezed hard enough. Derek could smell the frustrated anger coming off Stiles in waves and decided to give him a small mercy by changing the subject.

“If you train so hard, then why are Deucalion and his brides still tormenting the village,” he asks, ignoring the way Scott frowned at him. Derek has nearly died at least five times in this past week alone, he’s earned the right to be testy.

“Killing vampires isn’t exactly an easy task to manage. From what you told me about earlier, it took all of you working together just to kill a single bride and there was still two villagers dead by the end.” A muscle in Chris’ jaw twitches as he clenched his teeth, the grief in his amazingly pale eyes showing that he wasn’t as unaffected as he tried to appear. “The vampires are as smart as they are quick and no one knows where they live.”

“How can you not know? Just follow them.”

“Well, gosh, I wonder why we didn’t think of that,” Allison remarks, crossing her arms over her chest. She still wore the leather vambrace to protect her arm from her bowstring, the leather supple yet worn. It was also slightly too large for her thin arm, probably an heirloom.

“What _do_ you all know about the Count?”

“He used to live here four centuries ago. Noah would stare at that painting for hours as though it was the key to all our problems.” She nods towards the map of Beacon Hills painted on one of the smooth stone walls across the room, and Derek notes the way she reaches out to still Stiles’ fidgeting hands. “Now he’s gone like everyone else.”

“My condolences for your losses.”

“We don’t need them,” Stiles says firmly. “We’ll see our family again once we die, which is starting to seem like it’ll happen sooner rather than later.” He turns his amber gaze to one of the arched windows, baring the lean column of his throat and emphasizing the square cut of his jaw. He was beautiful, you’d have to be blind or an idiot not to see that, and all of Derek’s instincts were screaming at him to suck a mark on that perfect skin so that everyone know just who Stiles belonged to. His rational mind was on board with that, but also reminded him that propriety demanded he at least get to know the young Prince a little first.

“The Cardinal made it very clear you’re to be kept alive until Deucalion is killed. I plan on fulfilling his orders since failing means mountain ash poured into my coffee.” A small smile pulled Stiles’ lips upwards and he lets out a soft noise that might have been laughter as he focuses back on the wolves.

“Yeah, Deaton’s petty enough to do it.”

“You know him well?”

“We exchanged a few messages over the years, he gave some answers that I needed.” His hand goes back to the tattoo once more, brow furrowing as he runs his thumb over one of the flower buds. It was like Stiles had never noticed it before, which was completely ridiculous. “When he told me a monster hunter was coming, I never expected it to be a monster that was actually a hunter.”

“We’re not monsters,” Scott objects,” we’re werewolves.”

“Try telling that to half the villagers down the way. They’re superstitious and still believe that supernatural creatures should be executed. It’s ridiculous, but the vampires and the omega don’t exactly disprove their worries.”

“Omega?”

“One of Deucalion’s pets,” Chris answers, swallowing hard. “It tumbled over the cliff nearly a month ago and took the Princess with it.” Allison’s thin fingers wrap in the material of her scarf, pulling it off her head and holding it close. Seeing her reaction, Chris puts a hand on his daughter’s shoulder and gives a comforting squeeze. “Allison wants to be the one to put it down if it managed to survive.”

“It’s a wolf without a pack,” Derek explains when Scott looks to him. “It’s feral and lacking any type of humanity, stuck under Deucalion’s heel.” The younger man makes a noise of understanding, nodding slowly as he processed the new information. He’d never seen an omega before, never seen other werewolves aside from the Hale pack until this morning, so Derek saw no reason to withhold information.

“You can start your researching tomorrow morning,” Stiles mumbles. “Tonight, you’ve all earned a drink before you settle in.” It was early evening, the sun just beginning its descent, and Derek could feel his muscles straining as they continued to heal after the beating from the vampires. They’d spent most of the day making repairs in the village, burying the dead wolf and human, and attending a quick service in the local chapel. Now all Derek wanted to do was test just how soft his bed is.

“Could one of you tell me where I can find my room?” Stiles gestures for him to follow and Derek obeys without a word, the strap of his bag digging into the claw marks along his shoulders. They didn’t talk for a long while, taking lefts and rights seemingly at random until they finally came to a stop outside a sturdy wooden door with iron braces.

“This will be yours for your stay and I’ll make sure Scott is next door. If you need something before morning, I’m across the hall.” He flings an arm out to gesture at the half-opened door a few feet away, Derek jumping out of the way just in time to avoid being hit in the stomach on accident. At least, he really hoped it was an accident. “Uh, sorry about that. I’m still getting used to… Well, everything.”

“How old are you?” Because how could a man that looked so graceful while fighting be so uncoordinated while doing anything else? In just the past few hours, Derek had seen the young Prince wield his sabre with a tight control and then nearly trip over his own feet while on the walk up to his home.

“Twenty-two, why?” Derek just shakes his head, thick brows drawn together as he takes a moment to really look the Prince over. He took in everything from the slightly upturned nose to the scuff marks on boots that must have belonged to someone else at one point, the sprinkling of dark moles along his neck and left cheek reminding Derek of nights spent looking at the stars with Cora and Isaac curled against him.

“You seem younger than that.”

“How old are you?” Derek falters for a moment, trying to remember just how long he’s been alive. He couldn’t remember much about his life and Deaton said that werewolves aged differently than humans, so he could be pushing eighty for all he knew of his life beyond the last twenty-nine years.

“I don’t know.”

“How do you not know? That’s, like, the one certainty we all have! I’m twenty-two, Chris is forty-five, but lies to the entire village and swears that he’s closer to thirty-five. Hell, even my dad kept track of his age and the fact that he was lucky to still have hair.” Derek bites down on the laugh bubbling up in his throat, settling instead with an unimpressed raise of his brows. “Wow, those brows are really familiar. Do you have any family around here?”

“No, the only family I have lives in France.” Except that didn’t feel quite right, part of him aching like someone had ripped part of his soul right out of his chest as he looks around. “I’ve been with the Vatican for twenty-nine years now ever since my sister and I stumbled inside half-dead.”

“Does she hunt monsters, too?” Stiles was leaning against the wall close enough that Derek could smell a cloying sweetness that clung to him, almost like the sweet peas that Melissa insisted on growing in the small garden she kept her herbs in.

“No, I forbade her from that life.”

“Is she a nun?” Derek outright snorts at that, trying to picture his sister—the very picture of rebellious sinner—as a pious woman dedicated to God. “Okay, I’ll take that as a negative.” Stiles was smiling, just a faint upturning of plush lips, and Derek wished he could save that image forever.

“She and her husband own their own boutique and work as tailors, though Isaac’s a bit better at handling people than Cora is.” And that right there was a huge understatement considering his little sister was able to make grown men quake in their boots with only a glance. Derek was quite proud.

“Perhaps I’ll seek them out if I survive all of this. I’m sure your sister has plenty of embarrassing stories she’d like to share.”

“Not if she doesn’t want the mud incident retold in vivid detail,” he grumbles under his breath. Stiles laughs loudly at that, a pleasant sound that Derek found he could grow used to. “How are you feeling?” The smile that had been slowly growing quickly dropped into a frown and Derek ached at the sight.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel.”

“Of course it does.”

“I’m the Prince of a village that’s on the verge of being swallowed up by Hungary on one side and being constantly attacked by monsters on the other side. My feelings don’t matter so long as my territory and my people are in danger. Until the Count is dead, I will simply focus on my tasks and try to reassure my people that I’m not as useless as I really am.” It’s Derek’s turn to frown now and he reaches out without thinking, grasping Stiles’ arm lightly.

“I’ve seen useless rulers before, Stiles, and you’re not among their ranks. You do your best to keep your people safe, you fight for them despite all that you’ve lost over the years. If that doesn’t settle your nerves, then take in the way your people look at you from time to time. To them, it’s like you’ve hung the moon.”

“You’re beginning to babble, Mister Hale. Perhaps you should find your bed and get some sleep.” Stiles gently pulls his arm free and walks into his room, closing his door behind him and leaving Derek to stare at the wood dumbly for a long moment. Eventually his exhaustion wins out, the wolf turning and entering his own room and falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Neither man was aware of the way the small purple buds of Stiles’ tattoo began to bloom against his pale skin.

[Anemone flower](http://www.flowermuse.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/1200x1200/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/b/l/blueanemone_1.jpg)


	6. Conversations

Whoever said warm milk is great for putting people to sleep was lying through their teeth and Stiles was ready to fight them. Mostly because his warm milk wasn’t putting him to sleep. Also, he kept expecting Deucalion to show up on his balcony in a swirl of fine silk and condescending expressions—it’s happened before.

He’s just contemplating how badly Chris would react if Stiles hid in one of the tunnels beneath the manor when he heard footsteps; they were muffled but growing closer and Stiles’ heartbeat picked up as he tried to recognize them. Then Derek was shuffling into the kitchen, seemingly unaware of the lone human as he began digging through a bowl of apples. His hair was standing up all over the place and he was shirtless, revealing a neat row of abs that would have Stiles drooling if he were missing just a bit more of his dignity.

“You always go snack hunting in the middle of the night?” Derek jerks in surprise, the apple sailing out of his hand and landing at Stiles’ feet. “Nice, very coordinated.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping,” the were asks, a worried crease forming between his brows. _Because I have four vampires trying to kill me at random times, because it’s cold tonight and my blankets just aren’t doing their job, or maybe it’s because my fucking magical appears-out-of-nowhere tattoo keeps itching_. He doesn’t say any of that though, just shrugging and tossing Derek the apple back.

“A bit of advice from one non-sleeping person to the next, warm milk doesn’t work and it tastes awful without any chocolate in it.” To emphasize his point, he pops a shutter open and pours the milk out the window.

“You’re just now finding that out? I thought you were supposed to be the clever one.”

“And I thought guests weren’t supposed to steal fruit.” Pink tinges Derek’s cheeks as he ducks his head, Stiles offering up a faint smile. It had been easy to make his sister blush too and Stiles liked the way this stranger had some of the same reactions as Erica. It was like having a piece of her safely tucked away. “Was your room not to your liking?”

“No, it’s fine. Actually, it’s the biggest room I’ve ever slept in.” Derek looks up again, gazing at Stiles through a dark fringe of lashes. “I have nightmares sometimes.”

“An all too common occurrence in these parts, I’m afraid.” Stiles spent most of his nights tossing and turning, waking up more exhausted than he had been when he’d went to bed the night before. Sometimes he’d see Deucalion’s claws slicing through him, feel the sharp sting of them as they tore through flesh and ligament, other times he’d find himself held down by the brides and forced to watch as the blood is drained from his father, and now he could add seeing Erica falling over the side of a cliff into the mix. Granted, most of his nightmares weren’t things that had happened, but it didn’t make his panic attacks any less fierce. “I’ve found no relief thus far, but I’ll let you know if I stumble across any solutions.”

“I’ll be sure to do the same. After all, non-sleeping people have to stick together.”

“Yeah, or we’re liable to wander into the path of charging horses.” Derek laughs at that and Stiles is taken aback by the way the taller man’s face transforms from grim determination to something beautiful. It was like seeing sunshine after a week of heavy rain, warm and bright and welcome after so much grief. “Until then, perhaps you’ll join me for a drink.”

“Something a little stronger than milk, I hope.”

“If by that, you mean the brandy I confiscated from my father because of his health problems, then yes.” Derek’s laugh is a soft huff of air this time, fond. “He complained for weeks about the missing brandy,” Stiles says as he leads the way back upstairs. “‘I hunt monsters on a regular basis,’ he would yell,’ I think I deserve to get drunk every now and again!’”

“Did he ever find out you were responsible?”

“He suspected me, but never had any proof. I mean, it’s not as though I hid the booze in my own room.” He stops halfway down the long hallway in front of a small table boasting a vase of Aster flowers, making a small sound of victory as he pulls out a bottle of brandy nearly the same color as his eyes. “Father never did appreciate my genius.” Stiles’ brows furrow as he holds the bottle up higher, noting the way it was half-empty.

“Or he realized kicking up a fuss would keep you from figuring out that he knew all of your dirty tricks.”

“I suppose I had to get my sharp wits from somewhere.” Stiles shakes his head with a fond smile, holding the bottle close to his chest as he and Derek made their way to Stiles’ bedroom. Like most rooms in the manor, his bedroom was spacious and well-furnished; a four-poster bed draped with red velvet curtains, a desk against the far wall near the balcony, a side table that held old letters between his parents and a candle, and a wardrobe that wasn’t nearly as full as it used to be. “Come on, we can take our drinks outside.”

“It’s a bit cold out for that.”

“Cold air helps me know I’m still awake.” Because there had been times when Stiles wasn’t so sure, nights he woke up a sobbing mess only to realize he wasn’t actually awake at all when an omega would rip sharp claws through his mother’s chest. “We can pull in an extra chair and sit at my desk if that would make you more comfortable.”

“No, just…. Just wait here a moment.” Derek disappears for a minute, but comes back wearing a tunic and holding a long coat. “Put this on so you don’t catch your death out there.”

“The famed monster hunter is concerned about me getting a cold?”

“I don’t think even you could appear threatening while struggling to keep from sneezing.”

“You underestimate me, Mister Hale.”

“I prefer to be called by my Christian name.” Stiles considers that and nods, trading the liquor for the coat. The leather basically swallowed his smaller form, hands hidden within the sleeves and the hem of it brushing the floor. Stiles frowns at the fit of it and then looks over to the were, his frown deepening.

“I’m almost taller than you are, so why is your coat this long on me?”

“Bad posture?”

“Like hell, I went through hours of training to have good posture. Just ask my governess, she used to pull her hair out by the handful whenever I even thought about slouching.” Stiles starts when Derek reaches out without warning, one hand on his shoulder and the other pressing against the small of his back until Stiles was standing straighter.

“Good posture, huh?” The coat fit slightly better now, but Stiles would eat his own boot before admitting that fact aloud to the wolf.

“Are we getting drunk or not?” Derek looked like he was struggling not to laugh again, gesturing for Stiles to go ahead of him. Stiles ignores the heat in his cheeks as he pushes the doors open and steps outside in the chilled November air, suddenly grateful for the borrowed coat.

“It’s snowing again.”

“It’s going to snow off and on until at least March.” The flurries were slow tonight, lazy as they floated down on a breeze from the mountains. “Does it snow much in Italy?”

“It mostly stays in the mountains, but we get the occasional snowfall in the city.” Stiles cherished the warmer months, loved watching flowers grow and prosper in his garden. It was the one positive thing he had left of his mother and he clung to it ferociously. “Wait a second, wasn’t your tattoo different this evening?” Stiles follows Derek’s gaze and finds the cause of the incessant itching, the purple flowers slightly more open than they’d been a few hours ago.

“I don’t know what you mean.” It was instinct that made him lie and Derek’s unimpressed raise of his brows let Stiles know that werewolf hearing was still a thing that wasn’t to be trifled with. “It’s… It’s hard to explain.”

“You possess some form of magic that expresses itself through tattoos when something significant happens in your life.”

“No, I possess— Actually, yeah, you got it right. That’s a first.” Derek doesn’t smile, his face doesn’t even really shift, but there’s a smugness there that makes Stiles itch to turn his skin blue for a week. “The vines appeared after my mother passed away, the magic transferring to the next viable host. At first it was just one vine that wrapped around my wrist, but it grew from there.”

“And the Anemone buds?”

“Those didn’t show up until this afternoon when the vampires attacked.” He brushes his fingers over one of the flowers, hating the sight of them against the blue of the vines. “Fading hope and a feeling of having been forsaken,” he says after a few seconds of silence.

“Pardon?”

“That’s what my mother always said Anemone flowers mean. It’s why we never planted any no matter how beautiful they looked.” _And now they’re permanently etched into my skin, a sullen reminder of everything I’ve lost_. “You got any tattoos?”

“None half so interesting as yours.” Derek turns all the same, pulling up the back of his wrinkled shirt and revealing a three-fold spiral between his shoulder blades. Something made Stiles feel like he should recognize them, that they’re important in some way or another or that he’s seen them before at the very least. “I showed up with it and my little sister has a similar one on the inside of her arm.”

“It’s beautiful work.” Stiles fingers twitch as he fights the urge to trace the thick black lines, instead reaching out to take the brandy back and take a long pull from it. The burn of it is welcome and the heat fills his belly, fighting against the dropping temperature.

Derek and Stiles are quiet for a long while, lost in their own thoughts as they look out at the sleeping village and trade the bottle back and forth. It’s not until Stiles goes to take a drink and gets nothing that he realizes the brandy is officially gone and he’s a little tipsy. Frowning, he sets the bottle on the stone balustrade and lets his hand drop back to his side limply.

“Are you okay?” Stiles grunts an affirmative, turning to look up at the werewolf. There’s two of them until Stiles blinks, then Derek’s twin fuses back into him and it’s just the single wolf with the pretty hazel eyes and the great abs. Really great abs. He could probably use those things as a weapon.

“ _Christ_ , you’re pretty.” It’s only when he sees the way Derek’s eyes go wide that he realizes those words came out of his mouth instead of staying tucked away in his mind. “Oh…” They stare at each other for a moment, Stiles’ eyes flicking to Derek’s full lips and tracking the way the tip of his tongue darts out to wet them. The rational, sober part of his brain stated that this was probably a bad idea, but the drunk part of his brain was screaming pretty loudly that Derek needed to be kissed or fucked or maybe a little bit of both.

Bet you can guess which side won out.

Stiles moves slow at first, giving Derek time to back away, but the werewolf seemed to have the same idea and they met in the middle with a muffled sound of pleasure. Stiles buries his fingers in Derek’s inky black hair, enjoying the way the strands slipped over his skin like silk just as much as the way Derek’s lips seemed to fit perfectly against his own.

Derek’s hands were a warm and solid weight at his hips, dragging him as close as he could without absorbing him, body firm and hard and— holy shit, Derek Hale has to be ninety-nine percent muscles, this is ridiculously unfair. Stiles isn’t complaining, though, because the owner of said muscles is slowly urging him backwards towards the bed and his tongue is doing this thing that should be considered an art form.

Even while knowing where they were headed, Stiles still lets out a surprised squeak when Derek picks him up by the backs of his thighs and drops him onto the mattress. The wolf grins down at him, pausing only long enough to pull his shirt over his head before dropping down over Stiles and catching himself on one arm so that the very human Prince wasn’t squished beneath him.

Derek is methodical, kissing a burning line down Stiles’ throat and over the curve of his collarbones, taking advantage of the fact that Stiles is only wearing a pair of mostly undone trousers and the coat. He kisses and nips every dark mole he finds scattered over Stiles’ sides, making him writhe and squirm beneath him.

“Hey, Stiles, do you think my hair is— OH GOD, NOT AGAIN!” Stiles jerks in surprise, making Derek flail and roll onto the floor with a grunt of pain. Stiles barely noticed that, however, because there was a fucking ghost standing just five feet away that Stiles was going to _murder for good_. With a growl, he grabs up a pillow and throws it as hard as he can in Peter’s direction, his frustration only worsening when it passes right through the ghost’s fat head. “Well, that just seems unnecessary.”

“Goddammit, Peter!”


	7. Remembrance

Peter has walked in on some truly awkward moments since the kids all reached adulthood, but this is the first time he’s felt a bone deep shock tear through him like a bullet. Sitting on the ground, half undressed and kiss-stupid, was a man that looked so much like his nephew that Peter could cry.

“No,” he croaks, taking a jerky step backwards. “He can’t— It’s too cruel.” The Derek lookalike was staring up at him with furrowed brows, those hazel eyes so much like Talia’s and yet not at the same time. Talia’s eyes were never so guarded, the emotions played out for everyone to see as long as they knew what to look for. Peter lets out a sharp breath and begins to run, not caring that going to the right meant having to dive off the balcony. He was a werewolf and a ghost besides, he wouldn’t die from jump off a second-story balcony.

“Peter, wait!” Stiles’ voice is far away, growing fainter the harder Peter ran. He couldn’t stay there and have that man looking at him, couldn’t stand seeing so much of his family in a complete stranger. Talia’s eyes and her straight nose, Andrew’s cheekbones and squared jaw, hell, the kid even had the same build as Peter!

“It wasn’t him.” Peter has to keep reminding himself of that fact, that he was the only one left of a long since decimated family line. His nephew was dead just like all the others; he wasn’t traipsing around Paris, he wasn’t laughing over a pint of beer, and he most certainly wasn’t rutting against _Stiles_ of all people.

Peter only slows when he reaches the edge of the village, breathing hard despite the fact that he didn’t need to. Peter didn’t need to do anything anymore; his heart was no longer beating and his stomach refused any sustenance he tried to force into it.

As a rule, Peter tended to avoid wandering into the village unless it was pitch black and no one would be outside. There were times, however, where he was more restless than usual and his skin felt too tight like it had back when he was still alive. He wanted to shift so badly, his wolf wanted to run through the snowy woods, but it was an impossible dream since he’d died in his human form all those decades ago. Now the best he could manage was a half-shift that wasn’t nearly so satisfying.

He bites his lip as he walks the familiar streets, leaving behind no trace of his presence no matter how hard he stomped in the snowdrifts. Nothing had changed much from when he was still alive; the same family lines in the same worn-out cottages that looked about ready to collapse at any moment, the same well in the village center where he and his sister had once tried to measure the depth with a long stick and one of their father’s scarves.

Peter lets out a soft sigh as he comes to stand in front of a cleared space on the outskirts of town, closer to the forest than the manor and its imposter. There used to be a house here, nearly big enough to compare to the Stilinski manse, homey in a way most places in Beacon Hills weren’t; the wood structure painted with soft creams and blues, a beautiful parlor that boasted rugs from Persia and silken wallpaper from Paris, and a herd of pups that were always making mischief of some sort.

All he has to do is close his eyes to remember the way his nieces and nephews would chase him through the woods when the moon was full and high in the sky, nipping playfully at his tail whenever he swung it too close to their rounded faces. Dark brown eyes of his favorite and youngest niece gazing up at him in the best pout he’d ever seen (Talia never failed to roll her eyes when the pair showed up with some sweet or another that Cora was most definitely not supposed to have and the only excuse he could offer up was _she gave me the puppy look, Tal_ ).

Now there was nothing here, just singed grass that refused to turn green again even in the height of spring. No one had attempted to build here, either thinking it poor taste or afraid of the ghost wolf that still prowled around at night. Peter’s ego hoped for the latter.

“Are you okay?” He turns at Stiles’ question, finding the teenager standing a few feet away from him. It always surprised him to see a man in place of the little boy that had chased him through the old tunnels of the Stilinski Manor, dark hair grown out and wild instead of cut close to his head.

“I will be, I suppose,” he murmurs, voice soft yet still so loud in the stifling quiet of the dark. “It was just a shock to see someone that looked exactly how I pictured my youngest nephew would look.” And he had pictured it a lot to keep his sanity in check; how his family would look all grown up instead of the burned husks he’d watched be interred in the cemetery.

“He was pretty shocked, too.” Stiles chuckles, his brief smile lighting up his face in a way that made Peter miss the boy’s childhood innocence. “You were his very first ghost.”

“I wish I could have given him the full experience, chains and all.”

“There’s always tomorrow night.” Peter sinks to the ground, not feeling the snow around him or the frigid wind that was making Stiles tremble even under the heavy shirt and borrowed coat he wore.

“I want— I need you to do something for me since I can’t.” Stiles nods and comes to stand beside him, letting his hand hover over Peter’s shoulder as though he wished he could grasp it. “Plant some flowers here, make this place beautiful again so the young ones can look at it one day and not see all the death that taints the earth.”

“Do you know which flowers you want?” Peter had been thinking long and hard on this very subject for at least seven years now, the exact shade of his niece’s favorite flower and the shape they would be planted in. When they bloom, Peter would be able to see it from a perch in a nearby tree, the symbol of the Hale family ever since they immigrated here from Scotland—a triskelion.

“White roses.” He can hear the slight uptick in Stiles’ heartbeat, the faint sniffle of him fighting back tears as he realized the meaning behind the color choice. Peter knew there was an entire section of the library dedicated to flowers, had watched Stiles and Claudia read through them time and again like normal families read fairytales.

“Roses mean remember.”

**~::THIRTY YEARS AGO::~**

Sunshine in December was a rarity on this side of the Carpathian Mountains, snow continuing to fall and collect in banks that nearly reached Peter’s hips. Cora and Laura were running a few feet in front of him, dark hair standing out against the blanket of white and giggles echoing off the trees.

“Not too far,” he calls out to them, and can’t help his smile when Cora nearly faceplants trying to look at him over her shoulder. She was still a pup, barely six years old and full of a restless energy after being trapped in the house for three days while a blizzard claimed the land outside.

“Can we shift now,” Derek asks impatiently. He was skulking at Peter’s side, filled with teenage angst and sleepless nights. “We’re far enough away from the village.” Peter checks to see if Derek’s right, barely able to see the twinkling candles of Hale House this far away. “ _Please_ , Uncle Peter!”

“Alright, but be quiet about it and stick close to your sisters.” Derek nods and runs ahead to join the other two, the elder wolves managing a beta shift while young Cora was only able to grow out her fangs. A full shift was a difficult thing to manage and even Peter had problems with it from time to time, but he was certain Derek would have it mastered in a few short years. He took after his mother in his stubborn determination.

Peter retains his human form despite his wolf’s restlessness, tugging his jacket tighter around him and lifting his head to scent the breeze. Even this far in the woods he can smell the honey and whisky of Cranachan, his favorite desert and a reminder of Christmas mornings in his gran’s house. He missed Scotland, the highlands and the woods where the fae danced on moonlit nights, but mostly he missed the family they’d left behind when they came to Romania.

“Uncle Peter, look!” He glances up at Cora’s excited shout, grinning when he spots her hanging upside down from a tree branch. “I’m a monkey!”

“Indeed, you are,” he agrees, walking over to her. Without warning, he scoops her up in his arms, cradling her small frame close to his chest so he could tickle her belly even as she wriggled to escape. “And I bet you’d make a tasty little snack for a hungry wolf.”

“Laura, save me!” Laura, despite being seventeen and a prim little thing, leaps into the fray and clings to Peter’s back like a barnacle. Peter’s grin widens as he allows himself to fall sideways into a snowbank, the girls laughing breathlessly as they snuggle closer. “You’re the best uncle in the world.”

“Oh, I’m well aware of that. They should name a mountain range after me.”

“I think your ego is bigger than any mountain,” Laura quips, tracing designs along the shoulder of his coat. “Mother says you’ve got an ego bigger than the moon.”

“Your mother’s ego is bigger than mine could ever be.” She snorts, shaking her head as she sits up. The snow has melted in her hair and along the soft curve of her chin, soaking into the thick material of her cloak. “Shall we go and steal some strawberries before Talia figures out what’s happening?”

“She’d catch us in an instant.”

“Ah, but not if we send in our resident thief.” Cora’s lips part slightly when the wolves’ eyes land on her, cheeks flushed a dark pink from the cold. “At Cora’s age, her scent isn’t as pronounced and she could smuggle an entire bowl of fruit out of the kitchen before my dear sister catches on.”

“I’ll bet I could get us some cream, too,” Cora adds, already struggling to her feet and tugging on Laura’s hand to make her sister get up. “C’mon, Laura, you have to distract her!” Laughing, the girls sprint back towards the candlelight while Peter stands and turns to face his nephew. Derek was lurking near the shadows, eyes golden in his beta form.

“Will you be joining us, Nephew?”

“Uh, ah, actually I’m going to stay out for a while longer.” He looks to something deeper in the woods, seeming to hear something that Peter can’t make out. Still, one would have to be blind not to realize that Derek was meeting a village girl every other night. “Tell Mother that I’ll be back before supper?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you, Uncle.” Peter dips his head in a nod and smiles softly as his nephew begins to run. Everyone deserved a little break from time to time and being in a pack meant having close to zero privacy.

Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?

**[Cranachan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cranachan) **


	8. Visitors

Allison wasn’t sure what had her awake at first, gazing blearily up at the forest green canopy over her head. She’d been sleeping deeply a moment ago, the dream more a memory than make-believe of a night just six years ago when she and Erica had shared their first kiss. She smiles at the warmth it brings, remembering the way the sky was beginning to turn purple and Erica’s soft lips pressed against her own.

She’s just about to turn onto her side when she hears it, a soft clicking sound of something sharp against the stone outside her room. She’s up and moving before her brain even registers the actions, fingers tight around the sword she always kept nearby. She’s better trained with her bow and knows that, but the sword didn’t have to be strung.

The hinges are quiet when she opens the door a crack, peering out into the darkness to try and find the thing responsible for making noises. She can’t see much in the glow of the moonlight, carefully inching out into the hall and straining to hear anything that wasn’t the house settling.

“Stiles,” she hisses, hoping that he’d round the corner with some kind of snack making his cheeks puff out. When she doesn’t get any response, she squares her shoulders and begins to walk. The hidden servant’s halls were a miracle at times like this one, allowing Allison to creep through the different rooms without being spotted herself.

She doesn’t stop until she hears an insistent clanging sound, stepping out of the door hidden in the paneling before making her way through the weapons room. The hem of her nightgown made soft sounds as it slid over the polished floors, the only sound other than the one that drew her attention.

Allison did her best to keep her muscles relaxed until she spun around the corner to confront the source of the noise, expecting one of the vampires or even the omega. Instead, she got an opened window that was caught on the strong gusts of wind.

“Dammit, Stiles, we’ve talked about this,” she grumbles, striding forward and latching the window. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d wandered around the manor to get some fresh air and she doubted it would be the last. “That idiot’s lucky no one’s snuck in by now.” She was still grumbling under her breath when she notices something was off, something in the room didn’t belong.

The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, sharp eyes making out the damp footprints— _pawprints_ —outlined by a flash of lightning on the floor, leading from the opened window to the door across the room. And as she took in the obvious signs of a creature being in the manor, her senses began to work twice as hard to process everything else. _It’s watching me_.

“I know you’re here,” she calls out boldly, keeping her back to the wall as she moves for the door. Her father’s a light sleeper, he should be running out of his room at any time. “Show yourself to me! Come on, coward!” She honestly hoped it would be Deucalion to appear out of the shadows so she could bury her sword to the hilt in his chest. She wanted to hurt him even if it wasn’t possible for her to kill him, to tear a hole in his heart the same way he’s done to her and her family for generations.

She makes it to the doorway, steps whisper-soft so that even a werewolf might have trouble picking out the sound while the storm picked up outside. _Maybe that’s what woke me up_ , she muses idly, _the thunder and the knowledge that Erica was always so scared on those nights_. The thought and sequential memory is cut to pieces when she feels something hit her shoulder, the thick drop of liquid splattering on the ground like tiny fragments of glass.

Allison glances up slowly, always taking her time to assess the situation like her mother had taught her, brown eyes locking on the hulking form of an omega as its razor-sharp claws dug into stone and mortar. Time seems to slow for a second as she gazes into the creature’s gold eyes, chest tight as she caught a flicker of recognition there even as she swung in a high arc, blade cutting through matted fur and ropes of muscle.

The werewolf’s roar makes the glass shake in the window panes, Allison sprinting out of the weapons room and for the hall that would take her to her father. She needed help, she couldn’t take down a werewolf with only a sword no matter how her dignity yelled otherwise.

“Daddy,” she yells, black blood slick as it drips onto her hand. “Stay with Stiles, there’s a wol—” A strong hand grabs her jaw and cuts off her words, but Allison couldn’t have forced herself to talk even if she wanted to once she realized who the hand belonged to. Erica was standing right in front of her, not even a foot away and beautiful as ever.

“Ally,” Erica breathes, tears gathering in brown eyes so similar to Stiles’. “My sweet Ally.” She drops her hand and pulls the other woman into a tight hug, Allison’s fingers automatically wrapping themselves in the loose material of the Princess’ blouse. She didn’t want to let go or open her eyes ever again if it meant she got to keep Erica so close.

“You’re alive.” The words were carried on a sob and she could feel Erica shaking as she cried as well. “We were so worried. Where have you been all this time?” They’d mourned, they’d _grieved_ , and she’d been alive this entire time. Stiles would feel so betrayed when he found out.

“I’m alive, you’re alive, Stiles is comforting a ghost at the edge of the village, so I’d say it was a normal night.” She pulls back enough to push blonde locks of hair off Erica’s face, letting out a pathetic attempt at a laugh. “Tell Stiles that Dracula has a c-cure—” Erica lets out a sharp gasp and clutches at her stomach, taking a stumbling step backwards. “Open the window! Hurry!”

“What’s happening? Erica, tell me—” But then moonlight was flooding the room once more as clouds drifted past and the bones were shifting under Erica’s skin. It was always strange to see a were shift up close, the way the bones elongated, and nails became claws as their wolf took over. “God have mercy.” Allison crosses herself more on instinct than anything and she can feel her legs slowly turning to jelly, but she still forced herself to the window across the room and flung it open.

“Ally, I’m sorry!” The end of the sentence was swallowed by a howl as Erica slumped forward, skin falling off of her like water and leaving a thick coat of fur behind. It was terrifying to know that the beast in front of her had no control, an omega slowly losing its humanity to the point that it would probably kill its own brother.

“Erica, please….” She didn’t know what to say, what she wanted to say as she watched Erica scale the wall and leap through the window in a single graceful move. She’s only partly surprised when warm arms keep her from collapsing, turning and burying her face in her father’s neck as her body was wracked with sobs. “Erica….”

“I know, baby,” Chris murmurs softly, hand warm as he cups the back of her head. “We’ll find a way to get her back.”

**~::*::~**

“You mean to tell me my sister’s not only alive, but a werewolf that’s being used by _Deucalion_ ,” Stiles asks, leaning forward in his seat. “We’re talking about my actual, honest to God sister, right? The same girl that punched out a Duke because he told her that her needlepoint was flawed? The same girl that hit Kali with a tree branch?” Allison and Chris share a look and nod before glancing back over at Stiles

“Yeah, I was shocked, too,” Chris confirms. “I came in right before you did and I’m still wondering how the Count’s dealing with her attitude.”

“I grew up with her and I still have trouble dealing with her attitude.”

“At least we know that she still has a little free will if she stopped to talk with her…” Scott trails off awkwardly, gesturing at Allison.

“I was her lover when we were teenagers,” the huntress informs him with a roll of her eyes. “She’s my best friend and I want to get her back where she belongs.”

“Which is here terrorizing the gentry?”

“Now you’re getting it.” Allison lets out a soft laugh when Scott grins crookedly at her, like some puppy-eyed fool that thought she hung the moon. She’s missed that kind of attention, almost craved it now that she had no one in the castle to hold her at night and tell her she wasn’t awful for behaving more like a man than a woman. It was ridiculous, really, her needlepoint could rival Lydia’s and she had no trouble doing other tasks deemed feminine, so why shouldn’t she also be proficient with weapons or fighting? Viscount Raeken was just jealous that his fencing was sub-par compared to her own.

“Erica was here,” Stiles asks again, looking like he was having trouble wrapping his head around it.

“Yes, Stiles.”

“And she’s an omega?”

“Yes, Stiles.”

“And she said for sure that the Count had a cure?” Allison shoots him a look and he holds his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, it’s just a shock.”

“How do you think I feel? She hugged me, told me there was a cure, and then she was turning into a fucking wolf!” Her eyes widen when she realized what she’d said, cheeks heating up in a blush as she looks over at her father. “Sorry, Daddy.”

“It’s been a long night, I think you can curse if you feel like it,” he mumbles, patting Allison’s knee. “Hell, I’d even let you go break all of Jackson’s mirrors if you felt like it.”

“ _That was one time!_ And anyway, Lydia would kill me if she couldn’t do her hair in the morning.” But her dad was chuckling in that low baritone of his that always made her feel safe and she couldn’t bite back a smile.

“I bet Erica’s heard a lot of useful stuff since she’s been in Deucalion’s castle for a month,” Scott comments, scratching absently at the stubble on his cheek. “If we could find her and use the cure, then she could probably tell us how to kill the vampire.” Allison makes a considering noise and leans back on the sofa, brown eyes catching with Stiles’. He looked ready to charge back out into the storm and drag his sister home by her nose and Allison was more than ready to help. Stiles opened his mouth, but whatever he has to say is forgotten when the door to the sitting room slams open to admit a soaking wet Derek Hale.

“What the fuck,” he blurts out, arms held out and then slapping back down with a wet _smack_. “I’ve been running all through that godforsaken village for the past hour, Stiles! I thought you might have been hurt or taken or dead! And here you are, having some kind of meeting by the goddamn _fire!”_ Everyone falls silent, the only sounds being the crackling of flames and the water dripping to the floor off Derek’s shirt.

“Der, you smell like wet dog.”


	9. Kidnapping

The village was quiet all throughout the next few days, no monster attacks to speak of while the people were able to finish the repairs. It was slow going because of the fluctuating weather, but Stiles was proud to say that there would be no leaky roofs for at least another fortnight unless Deucalion sent his brides out again.

It was late afternoon on a Friday that Stiles actually let himself relax, groaning as he dropped into a chair in the formal dining room. There hadn’t been very many occasions to use this room since the Stilinskis weren’t known for throwing parties, but the long table was kept polished and there were no loose threads in the tapestry that hung over the mantel. Stiles remembers his father bringing him and Erica in here to see the family crest, telling them how it had been stitched by Stilinski the Elder’s young wife while she was pregnant; a wolf with pink and yellow Alstroemeria clutched in its jaws, all of this set against a dark blue field.

“Do you know why your family chose to have flowers it the crest,” Scott asks, drawing Stiles’ gaze to the doorway. The beta was leaning there, like he was unsure if he should actually come into the room or run in the other direction.

“My mother said it was because even snarling beasts had people that loved them.”

“Again with the beast thing?”

“My mom’s words, not mine. She didn’t know very many weres that she could trust in her lifetime.” In fact, it wasn’t until she died that werewolves began to migrate to the village, which probably meant her magic kept them away. “So, were you bitten or born?”

“Derek bit me when I was a teenager after I had a bad asthma attack.” He pushes off the jamb and wanders further into the room, taking in the elegant blue and silver rug that had been a mixture of the Argent and Stilinski houses after Chris and Allison moved in. “He was really reluctant at first since I was just sixteen, but then my mom cornered him and there’s no denying her when she gets like that. She may be small, but she’s scary.”

“Sounds kind of like Lydia.” Scott’s dark brows furrow and Stiles gives a warm smile. “She, uh, was my dad’s ward until she turned nineteen and married into the Whittemore family. I used to think she and I would get married one day, but that was before I realized I was more interested in men.”

“Oh.” Scott’s eyes bug out a moment later, an expression of realization appearing a second later. “ _Oh. That’s_ why Allison was giving you and Derek weird looks over breakfast this morning. I just thought it was because you burned the eggs.” Stiles might have blushed a couple of years ago as Scott put the pieces together, but now he just claps a hand on the man’s shoulder.

“I thought you werewolves were supposed to have a great sense of smell.”

“We do, but Derek’s been helping you train lately and I figured that’s why you smelled like him. Wait, you guys didn’t have sex in the training room, did you?”

“No.” Stiles narrows his eyes, raking his gaze from Scott’s short hair to his worn boots and back up again, taking in the faint pink coloring the otherwise light brown of his cheeks. “Did _you?”_

“Who would I have sex with in the training room?”

“I’m gonna give you a minute.” Scott—sweet, naïve, innocent to the point of idiocy—takes that full minute and another three and a half before he figures out what Stiles meant, then he was blushing harder and shaking his head rapidly back and forth. “You saying she’s not good enough for you?”

 _“_ No! No, of course not! I’m saying Allison’s father would gut me like a fish if I did anything to her. Actually, I’m pretty sure she could do more damage, but that’s not the point. Chris scares me.”

“I don’t?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, come on! I can be scary!” Scott snorts and walks out, Stiles chasing after him with all thoughts of monsters and family crests forgotten as he tries to convince the wolf just how terrifying he could be. Sure, he was a hundred and forty-seven pounds of pure attitude, but there were muscles and magic to be considered as well, dammit! “Scott! Don’t ignore me! Hey, stop running and get back here so I can scare you!”

He was so caught up in catching the beta that he didn’t have time to stop as Derek unknowingly stepped in the way, the pair tumbling to the floor in a tangle of limbs and curses. And, wow, who knew you could find creative curse words when you’d lived in an abbey for so long?

“Honestly,” came Peter’s drawling voice,” can’t you two keep your hands off each other for more than an hour? I know the Hale genes are hard to resist, but I expected better from you, Stiles.” Stiles, still trying to figure out whose leg belongs to whom, glares up at the spirit.

“If you weren’t dead, I’d punch you.”

“If I weren’t dead, I’d still move too fast for you to land a blow.”

“I doubt you’d be fast if you were sleeping.” Peter barks out a laugh, crossing his arms over his chest and watching on in amusement as the two men were finally able to stand. The Hales had spent the majority of the past week locked inside the room Peter had claimed ages ago, going through Derek’s scattered memories and piecing things together one day at a time.

“Do you always pass time bickering with dead werewolves,” Derek asks, arching his truly impressive brows. He must’ve got those from his father’s side of the family because Peter’s look downright boring in comparison.

“It’s that or milk cows and ol’ Bessie is still a little skittish after she was thrown into a house last week.” Stiles really wished that was the weirdest thing he’d ever seen, but he’s seen some downright disturbing shit growing up in Beacon Hills and only half of that related to the supernatural.

“How’s everyone doing after the attack?”

“They’re doing good. Rebuilding is pretty much an art form by now, so we’ve got a system worked out and extra werewolves are always a plus while carting beams from one house to another.” Ennis had been a big help, but now he was just another body in the cemetery just like Claudia and Peter. “We get rid of vampires, then maybe my people can go back to worrying about crops instead of building materials. I’m sure that greedy bastard in Hungary is just dying to absorb Beacon Hills.” Peter arches a brow and Stiles rolls his eyes in return, only partially surprised that the force didn’t make his eyes roll right out of his skull. “Alright, Franz isn’t so bad, but those guys have been after my lands since 1834.”

“Like I said before, I’m here to make sure those vampires are dead and buried.”

“And here I was hoping you came all this was to admire my ass.” Derek splutters at that, hazel eyes widening to the size of dinner plates. Stiles could practically see Derek’s brain imploding even as his cheeks colored, doing his best to come up with some kind of response that didn’t have him looking like a dying fish. “Don’t worry, you’re not the only Hale that’s noticed.” Derek’s gaze focuses on his uncle, eyes narrowing and lips dropping into the scowl Stiles has come to know so well.

“I was just trying to build his confidence, Nephew,” Peter placates, raising his hands. “He was a very self-conscious eighteen year old at the time.”

“You should thank him, he’s the one that suggested wearing clothes that actually fit me instead of my father’s old ones.” Stiles claps a hand on Derek’s shoulder before making his way down the hall. His back was aching after the hard labor and all he wanted was to soak in a hot bath.

The rest of the afternoon passed smoothly, most of the repairs finished before more clouds blew in from the southeast. There would be another storm before the night was over and the rain would probably freeze by morning, so Stiles was more than happy that he wouldn’t have to leave the manor on Saturday.

He didn’t run into anyone else until dinner, all of them meeting in the informal dining room for a meal of soup and fresh-baked bread (he would never tell Allison that it was a little too burnt to taste good because he valued his life, thank you very much). The chorba wasn’t bad, though the spearmint was a little too much and there could’ve been more beans. Again, he made sure to keep the criticisms to himself because it was clear Allison was trying to show off to Scott.

“Maybe we can invite the Whittemores over tomorrow for dinner,” Chris says after a long lapse in conversation. They were all dragging, even Peter was quiet as he studied his nephew. “It’s been awhile since we were able to spend time with little Thomas and he’ll have to start his studies soon.”

“I’ll bet Jackson’s thrilled about that,” Stiles mutters, moving his spoon through the soup. “His son’s not a were or a banshee, he’s a magic user just like his godfather.” That had been a shock to most of the village when the child had made green sparks dance during Christmas mass, but Thomas had beamed up at his parents and declared that he was just like his uncle Stiles.

“What Jackson thinks doesn’t matter, you know that. Lydia makes all the decisions.”

“Which is a good thing because Jackson’s a complete idiot,” Allison puts in. “He’d drive his family name right into the ground if his wife didn’t have a good head on her shoulders. Just last year he was seen walking with Frankenstein despite the rumors that were proven true.” Victor Frankenstein was just another stain on the village’s reputation, more a monster than even the vampires. “Are you okay, Stiles? You don’t look so good.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, setting his spoon aside and pushing away from the table. “If you all will excuse me, I’m going to turn in for the night.”

**~::*::~**

Stiles ended up tossing and turning for about two hours until he gave up on the idea of getting any sleep and shuffled down to the kitchen. He was exhausted and could basically feel the bags under his eyes growing, but his thoughts just kept going and growing worse with every scenario his brain threw his way.

Erica is alive and there is a cure for lycanthropy, but how are they supposed to get it? How were they going to get it to her when they find it? For that matter, where the actual fuck was the cure?

“Dad would know what to do,” he mutters, crossing the room to the window he’d left open a few days ago. Allison would kill him if she knew he’d left another window open when a vampire attack was inevitable, but the cold wind helped to clear his mind. “Dad would have all the answers.”

“Funnily enough, he said the same about you.” Stiles’ head snaps up at the voice, lurching backwards when he comes face-to-face with Kali. She was coldly beautiful, all sharp angles and dark hair and a smile that used to make Stiles feel warm; now all he felt was dread curling around his throat like a noose.

“Why are you here?”

“Not to kill you. The master has a proposition for you, Prince Stilinski. You can come willingly and submit to him as Marishka’s replacement, or you can watch as the remnants of your little family are hunted down like beasts.”

“Tell your master that I’m gonna find a branch, cover it in mountain ash, and then I’m gonna shove it so far up his ass—”

“A simple _no_ would suffice.”

“But that doesn’t let him in on how mad I am, Kali. It doesn’t catch my free spirit.” She bares her teeth in a predatory grin, looking more like the big bad wolf instead of a rat with wings. She wasn’t a full vampire, maintaining just enough human blood to walk in daylight and cross holy ground, but she still had the enhanced strength and a pair of wings that could fill a closet.

“You do realize that saying yes could save your family, right? It’ll keep you alive until someone drives a steak through your heart.”

“And keep my family in purgatory! I’m not gonna make them suffer! If I get close enough for Deucalion to turn me, then I’m close enough to rip his throat out with my teeth.” He leans forward, hands braced on the sill so that their noses were nearly touching. “And you can tell your master I said that.”

“He figured you’d say something like that.” Before he could draw away, Kali dug her claws into the front of his shirt and yanked him through the window, not seeming to care how much he screamed or thrashed in her hold. 

“Help! Derek! Chris!” Kali laughs brightly, clothes seeming to melt into her body as the gorgeous brown of her skin turned ashy gray and wings sprouted out of her back. “Let me go, you bitch! Derek!” It was disorienting as she pushed off the ground, wings beating furiously to keep them both up in the air, claws digging into his shoulders as he continues to struggle.

“Keep this up and I’ll just drop you!”

“That’s preferable to smelling your breath!” She growls low in her throat, dipping down through the trees of the forest just to have some branches whip at his face and legs. _Well, that’s just petty_. It’s not until Kali takes a sharp turn to the left that he gets an idea of why they were really going through the forest instead of just flying over it. “HELP!”

“And here I thought you were the type to be your own rescuer.”

“I’m kind of limited on options right now,” he growls back, kicking his legs and wrenching himself backwards. “Why not save us both the time and let me go?” She looked about ready to make another quip, but Stiles is saved from that by a long, low howl. Stiles grins, flicking his gaze back up to the dhampir with an expression that could only be described as smug. “There’s my option B now.”

“We killed your pet werewolf.”

“Derek, I’m up here!”

“Put him down,” Derek roars from at least twenty feet below them, running at a ground-eating speed that would have left Stiles breathless. It also didn’t help that he man was shirtless and his hair was tousled from sleep. _Fuck, he’s beautiful_. Kali’s eyes flash yellow for a moment, a response to the alpha tone he’d used on her.

Instead of obeying, she flaps harder and tries to get higher, but Stiles’ added weight was dragging her down and Derek was already beginning to shift. It was amazing to see it happen, muscles writhing beneath his skin to allow for lengthening bones even as fur sprouted out in one smooth wave of black.

With one last warning howl, Derek launches himself up and off of the trees until he’s gotten enough momentum to leap one last time and clench his jaws around Kali’s ankle, dragging them all down. The twenty foot drop was nauseating and the impact made it even worse, his shoulder throbbing even as he tucked into a roll that brought him back up to his feet.

Derek was standing with his front paws on Kali’s chest, eyes bright red and teeth bared in an intimidating snarl. His gaze moves up and holds Stiles’, a silent question that the Prince could easily decipher and agree with. He dips his head in a nod, watching on with a morbid fascination as those sharp fangs sink into Kali’s neck and a gush of blackened blood sprays out across dark fur and pristine snow.

Derek backs away from the corpse, shifting back into his human form and tugging his trousers back on before walking over to Stiles. “Are you okay,” he demands, cupping Stiles’ face in his hands. “Did she bite you? Are you hurt?”

“Well, my dignity’s seen better days, but…”

“Stiles, can you stop being a smartass for ten minutes and give me a real answer?” There was legitimate concern in his eyes, fear that something was wrong with Stiles that couldn’t be fixed. Stiles frowns and covers one of Derek’s hands with his, baring his neck for the wolf to see that there were no bitemarks. “I’ve got Scott staying with the Argents to make sure nothing attacks the village.”

“Good, I wouldn’t put it past Deucalion to send his brides out again.” Derek nods, wrapping an arm around Stiles’ waist and pulling him flush against him. It was easy to ignore the blood drying in Derek’s beard when those plush lips slotted against his own.

“I was so scared that I would be too late to help you.” Stiles just pulls him back down, blunt nails scratching through the wolf’s thick hair and drawing a low rumble out of him that vibrated his chest. Kissing Derek was an amazing thing, like the first blooms of flowers he’d worked so hard on or using his magic, a warmth that spread through him and made his fingertips tingle. When Stiles pulls back again, Derek’s staring at him with glazed eyes and a dopey smile that made Stiles feel even more smug about his prowess.

“So, good news is that I know where she was taking me, which also means I know where Deucalion is hiding out. Get a move on, handsome, we got vampires to kill.” And if his hand just so happens to twitch and slap Derek’s ass, well, he didn’t hear any complaints about it.

[Alstroemeria](https://www.anniesannuals.com/signs/a/images/alstroemeria_tricolor_02.jpg) is symbolic of wealth, prosperity and fortune. It is also the flower of friendship. [Francis Joseph I](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Franz_Joseph_I_of_Austria) was Emperor of Austria and King of Hungary until 1916 and, from what I could find, was considered to be one of the better rulers of Austria-Hungary. [Chorba](https://www.196flavors.com/bulgaria-bob-chorba-bean-soup/) is a traditional Eastern European soup and is usually served with bread or cheese. 


	10. Deucalion

Castle Frankenstein was the Stilinski manor’s complete opposite in every way that counted, all dark stone without a touch of love, the windows of the upper floors lit with something like lightning that flashed and sparked in the darkness. Derek could make out several voices shouting at once, matching up with the parade of heartbeats, but nearly drowned out by the shriek of old machinery.

“Looks like I was right,” Stiles says, frowning up at the castle. “The man that lived here was killed a year ago for grave robbery and corpse bothering. Rumor has it that he was in league with Deucalion.”

“And he had no heirs with a claim to his home?”

“No, his brother and mother were killed when Victor was a child and his father stays in Geneva. I should have had this place torn down.” Derek turns his gaze to Stiles, taking in the intense frown and the guilt that flashes in his eyes. They really were beautiful eyes, like moonlight through a glass of whisky. _Wait, no, need to concentrate on possible murderous, trespassing vampires_.

“Victor was killed and then your father was taken just days after that? It’s not a coincidence.”

“It’s Deucalion getting revenge against my family. Nothing new there.” Stiles heaves a shuddering sigh, breath a white cloud that hovered in the cold air for a scant few seconds. There’s a long moment where Stiles looks up at the castle sadly and Derek watches him, taking in the cute stub of his nose and the single green jewel that pierces his right lobe. “So, are we gonna break into a heavily guarded, vampire-infested castle or are we gonna stand out here like a bunch of fools?”

“Well, we came this far, it’d be a shame to turn back now.” And Derek loved seeing the Prince in action, the red flush in his cheeks and the sudden grace that came from the anticipation of a fight that seemed entirely natural. “How do you suppose we get in?” Normally Derek would just burst inside and take care of whatever foe came his way, but his main priority now was keeping Stiles alive.

“Servant’s entrance. Come on, it’s this way.” They stay within the tree line and they don’t come upon anyone until they’re just inside the castle, a pair of short creatures dressed in gray rags shuffling past. “Dwergi,” Stiles informs him in a breathy whisper,” they do the chores Deucalion thinks are below him. If you get the chance, kill them because they’ll do worse to you.”

“Noted.” They manage a few mote steps before Stiles freezes beside him, head cocked as he listened to the chatter, a string of some old Germanic dialect that Derek couldn’t piece together. He knew enough German to get himself in trouble (thank you, Cora), but he mainly focused on Italian, Romanian, and English with a smattering of Hungarian and Latin.

“The bastard is using Erica in some kind of experiment.” Stiles looks up at Derek and the murderous light in his eyes really shouldn’t make the wolf react like this. “She’s here and this may be our only chance to save her.”

“Then I guess that’s what we’ll do.” They may not even need the cure if Erica joins Derek’s pack, then she’d be tethered back to her humanity and their only worry would be curbing her bloodlust that all new wolves go through. “If they’re doing experiments, then they’ll need some kind of lab.”

“Right, yeah, it’s through here.”

“Wait.” Derek grabs the sleeve of his torn shirt, tugging Stiles back into the shadows. “You have no weapon.”

“Neither do you.” Derek arches a brow and allows his claws to grow, the sharp points they form glinting with every flash of lightning. “Show off.” The wolf has to bite back a smile, allowing his eyes to change so he could see through the darkness better. Eventually he decides on a thick metal rod that had been tossed to the side, not too heavy for Stiles to carry or too light that it wouldn’t pack a punch if swung properly.

“Here, use this.” Stiles takes the rod from him and shifts it from hand to hand, swinging it a few times in practice before nodding. Derek had seen him practicing in his spare time, the man was incredible with his sabre, but it was the rowan wood staff that he was most comfortable with. “Alright, lead the way.”

“It’s killing you that I get to be in front, isn’t it?”

“Not particularly.” Derek’s gaze slides to the Prince’s backside, pert and a perfect handful in those deliciously tight pants he always insisted on wearing. Stiles gives him a cheeky grin, turning on his heel and leading the way through the castle as though he’d explored it thousands of times before.

Ten minutes and five dead ends later, Derek was starting to second guess Stiles’ confidence.

“It should be around this corner,” Stiles was saying, frustration bleeding into his voice.

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Yeah, but this time I’m sure of it.” He swings the heavy door open and steps inside with Derek right behind him, both of them coming to a stop barely two feet into the room. The whole castle so far held a sour, bitter smell and Derek had just assumed that it was from the abandonment, but now he realized it was all coming from this room. Slick, green sacks were suspended from the arched ceiling, wire and metal prongs stuck through them in random intervals that sparked with what Scott called electricity.

“What the hell are these things?”

“I was about to ask you that.” Derek moves closer to one of the sacks, rolling his eyes when he can make out a flutter of a heartbeat before it went silent again. “What?”

“It’s his offspring.”

“Oh, God.” Stiles’ nose scrunches up adorably and he pokes at it with his weapon, watching it sway for a second before it settles again. “That’s not right.”

“What’d you think would happen when he’s been locked away with three gorgeous women for so long? Those years certainly weren’t spent brushing each other’s hair and bad talking your family.”

“Yeah, but I don’t wanna _picture it_. Sex is ruined for me now.” Derek arches his brows and looks over at Stiles, the other man biting his lip as his gaze trails down Derek’s abs and back up again. “Your abs cured me. I am cured. After we rescue my sister and stab Deucalion with something, we’re finding a room and finishing what Peter keeps interrupting.” Electricity crackles again, running along the thick cables strewn throughout the room. “Okay, we need to get out of the dead baby room before my dick breaks forever.”

Stiles leads the way once more, pushing past the sacks towards the other end of the room. The things seemed to grow closer together the further they went until they couldn’t breathe without bumping into one, the mucous feel of them against his bare shoulders making Derek cringe.

It’s a relief when they finally push through to a cleared patch of the room, an opened doorway on their right and a balcony above them that leads to the second level. Still, the sheer number of the sacks made the wolf nervous, hazel eyes trying and failing to count all of them as he thinks back to what Ally had told him on his second day in the village.

“Allison told me that the brides only take one or two people every month to feed on.”

“Yeah, so,” Stiles asks, flinging some goop off his shoulder and to the floor with a wet _splat_.

“So, they’re going to need a lot more than that to keep this brood fed. They could probably wipe out the whole village within the first month.” Stiles reaches out to touch one of the sacks right as a new pulse of electricity shoots through them, Derek yanking him back just before his bare fingers could be zapped. The thin lines of blue light up the entire chamber, sparks showering down on them and the sacks pulsing. “Well, that’s not good.”

“Nope, definitely bad. Open one up.” Derek’s head snaps to the side, looking at Stiles in shocked disgust.

“What?”

“Open one up so we know what we’ll have to deal with later. My dad said it’s always better to be prepared. Of course, back then he meant that I should be prepared for Jackson to bully me, but I feel like the saying applies here, too.” He nods with satisfaction, staring at Derek expectantly.

“There’s something seriously wrong with you.”

“I’ve been stalked by vampires for over twenty years, Der, did you really expect me to be totally sane?” Which, yeah, he has a point. “Use your werewolf powers and slice that thing open.” Grimacing, Derek steps up to the closest sack and reaches out a hand, a small shock of electricity stinging his fingers on contact. He hisses, but keep going anyway, using his claws to cut through the thick membrane.

Slime and green clots slide over his hand and wrist, flung away from him whenever it builds up too much and obscures the path he was digging. It was cold against his bare skin, like algae that was close to freezing, but he was driven to keep going by the faint heartbeat further in. When the muck was finally cleared, a small gray shape was revealed, looking more like a goblin than an infant.

“Ew, that has to be the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen,” Stiles complains. As if taking offense at Stiles’ words, the vampire’s big eyes shoot open and it lets out a hoarse shriek that drove the were and Prince backwards with a cry of their own. All around them, the sacks exploded and more babies flew out, ugly and misshapen things with a wingspan equal to Derek’s arm.

“We need to get out of here.” He could hear three sets of footsteps coming from above and he’d bet everything he owned that they belonged to the remaining brides and Deucalion. If nothing else, that meant it would be easier to reach Erica without the vampires standing watch. “Go find your sister and I’ll distract the Count.”

“If he’s here, then I need to kill him.”

“Stiles, your sister is more important right now. Go and find her and then get out of here!”

“But what about you?”

“I’ll find you when this is over.” He shoves Stiles towards a set of stairs, watching long enough to ensure the Prince wouldn’t be coming back down before making a beta shift and beginning to take out the low flying bats. It was slow going without his rifle, but their skin was delicate and Derek’s claws were more than capable of tearing through them. He catches Deucalion’s eye when he lands on the ground in front of the balcony, rolling his shoulders and snapping his jaws.

Deucalion looks to be in his mid-forties, all pale skin and sharp bones and a pair of red eyes that bulged slightly in the sockets; shaggy brown hair, thin lips turned down in a snarl, and a jaw that formed a pointed chin. He’s not necessarily handsome, but power rolled off him in waves and Derek could understand why that would appeal to the brides.

“You gonna skulk up there all night or are you going to fight me,” Derek calls up to him, giving a mocking bow complete with an overexaggerated sweep of his arms. “Or maybe you’re the type that prefers fighting weak humans instead of someone more on your own level.” The vampire’s growl echoes off the stone loudly as he jumps over the balcony, black clothes melting and changing until they were part of his massive body, leathery wings sprouting out of his back to carry him through the room.

Old equipment and dead leaves are blown around the room from the force of Deucalion’s wings, massive doors leading out of the room slamming shut and leaving Derek with no escape route that he could see. It bothered him in that he always prided himself on having a way out, but it wouldn’t matter in the end if he could sink his teeth into the vampire’s throat.

“Get down here and face me, you coward!” Deucalion lands gracefully at the other end of the long chamber, the only things separating them now being the massive stone pillars holding up the second level.

“You must be the werewolf that helped kill Marishka,” he says, accent leaning more towards British than Hungarian. He probably got a formal education somewhere in London, nothing strange about that since aristocrats weren’t known to actually care for their children themselves. “She was very dear to me.”

“She was very easy to kill.” Not exactly true, but Derek’s found people don’t think straight when they’re angry. Deucalion only offers up a wry smile and a shrug as if to say _what can you do_ in response.

“She was young. Kali, on the other hand, was nearly as old as I am. Do you know what happened to her?”

“Let’s just say that not everything tastes like chicken and leave it at that.” Derek scoops up another rod, twirling it expertly a few times and liking the weight of it. Once the vampire was close enough, Derek drives the rod into his chest, using the added strength of his beta shift to break through muscles and bone until the rod was poking out the other side, the vampire’s heart caught in the middle.

“Well, you certainly have good aim. Better than poor Noah at any rate.” He pulls the metal out easily and tosses it to the side, no blood spraying out and letting Derek know that the Count’s heart wasn’t pumping. His red eyes narrow, changing to a bright, electrified blue that nearly matched a beta’s as he took in Derek’s unprepared step back. “You’re a Hale, aren’t you? One of Talia’s litter.”

“How would you know that?”

“Who do you think convinced Kate and Gerard they needed to be killed? The old man was easy, he wanted immortality and I promised to give that to him in exchange for their deaths. Kate just did it because it excited her, she loved carnage and hated your kind.” Derek’s hurt must have shown through because Deucalion lets out a deep laugh. “You’re the one she seduced, aren’t you? Little Derek Hale.”

“I’ll deal with them later.”

“No need for that. Kali ripped Gerard’s throat out and I fed Kate to my brides after she tried to stake Verona.” Derek stamps down on the sudden flood of emotions, reminding himself that he still had an uncle and a sister to rely on, he still had the good Argents and even Stiles and Scott. He wasn’t alone and he would never be again.

“Is that supposed to get me on your side? Because it’s not working.” They move slowly through the room, carefully avoiding old lumps of wood and metal while never turning their backs on the other. Derek just has to hold out for a while longer, just until he knows Stiles has had long enough to find Erica. “Maybe don’t murder people next time.”

A loud howl seems to rip through the air, Derek turning his face towards the stairs before returning his attention to the vampire. _Just a little longer_ , he reminds himself, every instinct screaming at him to save his mate. _Just a few more minutes_.

“I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” Deucalion muses, his smile showing off blunt, human teeth. “I am Deucalion, the sire of all vampires, the apex of apex predators. To put it quite shortly, I am a demon and you are little more than a fly, Hale.” Derek opens his mouth with the intent to tell Deucalion just where he could shove all those pompous titles, but twin wails cut him off, a high and grief-filled noise that makes the vampire turn towards the shattered window with despair.

Derek takes that as his opening, grabbing a shard of glass before diving into a small lift and cutting the rope to send himself hurtling upwards. It’s almost too easy to navigate the castle, following the sound of Stiles’ heartbeat and taking out any Dwergi that he comes across along the way.

He finds the Prince on the snow-covered rooftop, Erica strapped to some kind of machine twenty feet away and undergoing a forced shift. She was still so new, unable to control the change when the full moon was hanging high and bright in the sky above them.

“I’d say we overstayed our welcome,” he says, forcing Stiles’ gaze away from the half-changed wolf. “We need to leave.”

“But my sister—”

“Will seek me out soon enough. Wolves are drawn to alphas during the full moon.” Stiles curses, looking around for anything that could be used to get down. It’s a long fall to the ground and not even a werewolf would be able to walk that off. Derek eyes a loose cable, not connected to anything or sparking in time with the lightning, then he looks to a sturdy, metal base as a plan begins to form. “Do you trust me?”

“Do I really have any other choice right now?” Derek nods, grabbing up the thick cable and securing it to one of the slats that make up the base, making sure the knot wouldn’t come undone before they were on the ground. “I’m not gonna like this, am I?”

“Better than death by werewolf claws. Hop on.” Stiles looked about ready to protest until Erica let out a roar, then he was crossing himself and climbing up onto Derek’s back with his arms tight around his neck. Derek mumbles out a quick prayer before lowering himself over the side of the roof, keeping his grip on the cable tight as he began to rappel down the side of the castle.

They’re halfway down when the cable snaps.


	11. Shelter

Stiles usually viewed his magic as a pain in the ass, but it came in handy during times like this. The tattoo on his arm burned as his spark came to life in his chest, his magic halting the rapid fall and flinging them sideways onto solid ground, little sparks of pink magic glowing around them for a moment before dissipating. It was a rough landing and Derek had somehow ended up on top, his body a hard line along Stiles’ front.

“That could have gone better,” he grunts, pushing at the werewolf until Derek took the hint and rolled off. Don’t get him wrong, he was all about having the wolf on top of him, but he preferred that to be in a bed, or on a table, or somewhere that was definitely not thirty feet away from the place where his father had been burnt to a crisp.

“At least it’s not raining.” As if nature itself was completely against them, the skies open up and rain begins to pour down on them in heavy sheets.

“You’ve been on more hunts than I can count and yet you’ve still never learned to keep the _it’s not raining_ comment inside your head? You put it out there and Mother Nature decides you’re unworthy!”

“At least you have clothes on.” Stiles scoffs, clambering to his feet and wincing at the feeling of mud in his hair. He liked his hair, thanks very much, he’s been told it’s his best feature aside from his eyes (and it so counts even if the compliment came from his mother). “Know any place we can hide out in until the storm lets up?” Stiles takes a moment to look around them, doing his best to figure out exactly where they are on this side of the river before nodding once.

“There’s an old windmill this way. It’s a burned out husk, but there should still be a little space to keep us moderately dry.” And if it wasn’t, then it was only five miles back to Beacon Hills and dry clothes. Stiles would give up his falcon for some dry clothes right now. Okay, so he wouldn’t give Roscoe up for anything in the world, but the emotion was valid.

The trek through the woods and over hills that Stiles wished weren’t a thing takes a good three hours due to the mud and steady downpour. They didn’t exchange more than a handful of words the entire time, conserving energy and just trying to stay up on their feet. Unfortunately, Stiles has no sense of balance most of the time and Derek learns this the hard way when they’re halfway up a tall hill and Stiles loses his footing, sending them both crashing to the bottom.

When they finally make it to the windmill, muscles Stiles didn’t even know he _had_ were aching in protest to every move he made. “Holy God,” he moans, stumbling under the meagre shelter that was left,” I never thought I’d be happy to find this place.”

“It does lack a certain charm, doesn’t it,” Derek asks wryly, taking in the scorched wood and the gears scattered over the property. “What happened here?”

“You remember how I told you about Frankenstein messing with corpses?” The wolf nods, huddled close to the spark for warmth. “Well, he was stitching them together because he had this ridiculous idea that he could bring them back to life with the right formula. He succeeded the night his castle was raided; him and his monster were cornered here, and the villagers put it to the torch. Simple as that.”

“The villagers, but not you?”

“Father wouldn’t let me or Erica out of the manor that night. He went to try and stop the mob, all about giving people a chance to explain, but it did no good.” Stiles shrugs, his shaking hands under his armpits as he snuggles closer to the wolf. “He came back and locked himself in his room for the rest of the night and most of the next morning. He disappeared a few days after that.”

“I’m sorry, I know how awful it is to lose family.” Stiles could see it in his eyes, the pain of loss that’s only increased since he learned what had actually happened to his family. He was probably one of the few people that could actually understand what Stiles was feeling, the raw hurt that made his chest tight and his throat feel swollen.

“Thank you.” Derek’s expression is fully open for the first time since coming to Beacon Hills, showing a vulnerability that makes Stiles want to wrap him up in a blanket and keep him somewhere safe for the rest of his exceedingly long life. Since he couldn’t do that rationally, he pulls Derek in for a long hug and allows his magic to heat the air around them and dry their clothes. Derek absolutely melts into the embrace, burying his face in the crook of Stiles’ neck and scenting him shamelessly.

Of course, it’s right around then that the ground decides open up and swallow them whole.

When Stiles wakes up, it’s to a god awful headache and the idea of just becoming a hermit in the mountains with only Roscoe for company. He could get by on his hunting skills and scare random travelers when he got bored since there was always traffic going in and out of Austria-Hungary. It would be a good life, a monster-free one that didn’t include falling into this pit of despair.

Stiles’ eyes flutter open slowly, squinting in the pale gray light of pre-dawn as it shines in through the massive hole above him. He takes a moment to remember what had happened before shoving debris off him and wriggling until he could roll onto his feet, legs shaky as he puts his full weight on them.

“This place is cursed,” he decides with a grumble. Derek slaps a hand over Stiles’ mouth, making the younger man let out a muffled squawk of indignation.

“Shh, we’re not the only ones down here,” he warns, voice low. Stiles nods to show he understands, following the wolf’s pointed gaze towards a pile of small bones that comes all the way up to his knees. _Rat bones_ , Stiles decides silently. Once he was sure Stiles wasn’t going to do something stupid, Derek moves over to the bones and lifts a Bible long enough for the Prince to see it. “Whatever it is, it’s probably human.”

“I take it you don’t meet a lot of creatures that like to brush up on their Old Testament?”

“Not enough of them by far. I can’t complain much, I’ve never been a believer like Scott and Melissa are.” Stiles can’t fault him there, it was hard at times to think there was some omnipresent being looking after them when so much evil happened in the world. Even he had periods of doubt and he’d helped rebuild the church numerous times since he turned ten.

“You should write a book one of these days. A how-to guide for dumb hunters that can’t tell the difference between Seelie and Unseelie faeries.” But Derek’s not paying attention to him anymore, focused on something else he can see in the gloom.

“Look, there’s footprints.” Derek points to the massive boot prints in the slick mud, following them slowly towards a darkened section of the underground chamber. “At least we know it’s a bipedal creature, so that rules out gargoyles. He’s got to be around three hundred pounds and tall to carry all that weight.” They come to a stop at the top of a low slope, the footprints disappearing into the deep shadows. While Derek’s distracted, Stiles lets his gaze roam around until it lands on a half-hidden form lurking above them over Derek’s broad shoulder.

“Remember when I told you about the guy that did the thing and the angry villagers who also did a thing?” Derek nods, looking up curiously even as Stiles makes a face because _of course this is his luck_. “Well, turns out the thing isn’t as dead as we all thought it was. It’s also standing right behind you and looks about ready to tear us to pieces.”

Derek barely has time to turn before the creature attacks, tossing the were away as easily as if he were a sack of potatoes. The creature, a great hulking thing with thick black sutures all the way down the center of it, turns mismatched eyes on Stiles. He’s distracted for a moment about how the right eye is beta gold, but then he’s being pushed against the cave wall and he’s remembering just how much having the wind knocked out of him hurts.

“We’ve done nothing to you humans,” the creature roars, the golden eye glinting like a shiny coin in the darkness,” and yet you hunt us down anyway!” Stiles only manages a hoarse squeak as he’s slammed against the wall again, a sharp edge of stone digging into his back. “Leave us alone!” Derek slams into the creature’s side, forcing it to drop Stiles as it falls against the wall next.

“Derek, wait—” But the wolf is being flung again, landing in the pool of murky water several feet away. The creature eyes Stiles and the spark suddenly wishes he could magic himself back home. He scrambles backwards and away until he finds himself cornered, his magic building in his hand, forming a pink ball in the darkness.

“Mieczysław?” The use of his Christian name has the Prince hesitating, the pink of his magic dimming as he’s finally able to take in the creature beyond the obvious. A strong jaw, thick neck, crooked nose from one too many fights, and a dull blue eye that belonged to the two boys Stiles had fought with when they were kids. _Jesus Christ on toast, it’s the twins_.

“Derek, stop!” The werewolf stumbles to a halt just a few feet away, impressive brows dipping down as he takes in the scene. Where before the monster had been in full-on attack mode, now it was staring down at Stiles with a mixture of sadness and confusion. “You need to roar.”

“Now’s not really the time,” Derek starts, but one stern look from the Prince has his words tapering off. “Cover your ears.” Stiles does so, watching on in avid fascination as Derek’s eyes bleed red and his fangs drop, the alpha roar seeming to vibrate through him and making the stalactites above them shake precariously. The creature— _the twins_ —drop to their knees, the golden eye glowing brighter than before as they bare their neck in submission. “What the hell?”

“They’re wolves like you,” Stiles explains, breathless in his excitement. “They were bitten by Ennis after a bad accident that killed their parents. They vanished when we were all sixteen and everyone thought they’d died in the woods since we couldn’t find them.” Ethan and Aiden, fused together by those awful stitches, nod along to what Stiles was saying. “What happened to you guys?”

“Frankenstein used powdered wolfsbane to knock Ethan out while we were delivering a foal,” Aiden answers, broad shoulders hunching up defensively. “Then he got me a second later and we didn’t wake up until the experiments had started. We felt untethered, the direct line we had to Ennis was gone and we were….” He trails off and the right hand moves to the stitches bisecting their bare chest. “We were like this. We were a monster.”

“Why wouldn’t you come back to the village? We could have helped you once we figured out what happened.”

“The villagers didn’t seem too pleased to sit and listen,” Ethan remarks dryly. “I seem to remember a lot of fire and yelling.” Stiles blushes and lowers his head shamefully, wishing for what had to be the hundredth time that his people weren’t so quick to deem the unknown as evil. “We decided it was best to hideout here, so Deucalion couldn’t use us to bring his children to life.”

“Yeah,” Aiden puts in,” he seems to think we’re the key to making Frankenstein’s machine work. What better way to live than out of pure spite, right?”

“He tried to bring his spawn to life last night,” Derek informs them. “They didn’t last long.”

“I heard them,” Ethan nods, scratching at the back of their neck with the left hand. “There were about five hundred of the little rats, weren’t there?”

“Round about.”

“I thought so. There’s still another thousand in one of the other rooms that Aleera brought into the world. Apparently, vampires go at it like bunnies when they’ve got the time.” Stiles grimaces, not needing that particular image in his head when he could be picturing Derek instead. “We spent months chained to Frankenstein’s table forced to listen to the Count drone on and on about pesky Stilinskis and baby making.” Stiles and Derek share a look, going through the same thought process as they turn their gazes back to the twins.

“You wouldn’t happen to know about a cure, would you?” There’s a loud shifting of rubble behind them, all of them turning in time to see a fully wolfed out Erica launching herself upwards and out of the cavern.  It didn’t take a genius to know that she had overheard everything and was being forced to report back to Deucalion, which meant they needed to get the twins as far away from Romania as possible.

“Aw, crap.”


	12. Tricked

When Derek was dispatched to the monster infested village of Beacon Hills with an order to keep the Prince alive until the vampires could be killed, he never imagined the other man to have so sharp a tongue or a penchant for getting captured. He also didn’t expect Scott to literally stumble across a clue in the manor house they’re staying at, but, really, nothing could shock him at this point.

“Why do you refuse to follow any of my orders,” Derek demands, glaring over at the pale man a few feet away from him. Stiles had his hands planted firmly on his hips and the same stubborn set to his jaw that Derek had admired in the portrait he’d seen in the Vatican. Now, however, it just made him want to knock the Prince out and lock him in a closet for an hour or two, so he could deal with Deucalion in peace.

“Because your orders are ridiculous and so are your eyebrows,” Stiles shoots back, practically hissing. Had this not been an argument about the Prince’s safety, then Derek would probably find the flush coloring his cheeks attractive, but, no, he needed to focus.

“He’s got a point, you know,” Scott says from nearby. “Those eyebrows could make a nun swoon.” Derek focuses on his breathing for a bit, trying to remember that Stiles was just doing what he thought was right. Derek would probably do the same thing in the Prince’s position, but that didn’t make it any less stupid.

“I thought you trusted me,” he says eventually, looking over at Stiles again. Stiles, for his part, is still standing in his ruined clothes with dried mud caked in his hair and along his back, looking exhausted and determined in equal measure.

“I do,” Stiles says, taking a step forward and cupping Derek’s face in a calloused hand. Derek instinctively leans into the touch, his wolf preening at the attention it was getting from its mate. “I trust you with my life, Der, but you can’t just lock me away in some tower. I’m the one who came up with this plan, so why can’t I see it through?”

“Because you have a target on your back the size of Notre-Dame.”

“Speaking of,” Scott says,” Deaton said you’re on monk duty for a month because of the whole rose window fiasco.” Derek sends his beta an unamused look and Scott raises his hands in surrender, moving to stand next to Allison until Chris sends him a death glare and he decides the twins are his safest bet right now.

“If it makes you feel better, I’ll ride inside the coach with the twins and Peter.”

“You’ll let Chris and Allison steer the horses,” he checks, feeling himself relax slightly at Stiles’ nod. “Fine, but if you leave the coach before we get to the ship, then I’ll personally tie your ass up and shove you in a trunk until we get to Rome.” Stiles nods again, turning and sprinting up the stairs to get into fresh clothes for the trip. Once he was out of earshot, Derek turns to Chris with a half-hopeful expression. “He’ll listen, right?”

“There’s a reason everyone in the village has wondered if he’s some sort of trickster spirit at one point or another,” the hunter remarks. He might be frowning, but his beard makes it hard to tell. “But maybe you’re special. Who knows?” And that…. That didn’t put his mind at ease in the slightest. _Is there any magic-proof rope in this place?_ “Scott, come help me get the horses ready.” If possible, Scott looked even more terrified at the thought of being alone with Chris than he did about the possible suicide mission they were going on.

“Relax, Nephew,” Peter says once the hunters and Scott had filed out,” Stiles isn’t too reckless when he has a goal in mind. And if he decides to do something stupid, then I’ll possess him and force him to stay inside the coach.” Peter shrugs as if casually possessing a Prince wasn’t a big deal, like he did it all the time.

“Please tell me you haven’t possessed him before,” Derek pleads, wanting to find at least one thing his demented uncle hadn’t done. It’s bad enough that the ghost terrorized the village priest for a year, but surely he had some morals left.

“How do you think we got him to eat his vegetables when he was a kid? The little brat hated anything green until he was eight and decided to foist a healthy diet on his father.” Peter snorts and shakes his head, sending a fond glance at the stairs where Stiles had run. It was obvious that he cared for Stiles, the expression nearly identical to the one he used to shoot Cora when she did his bidding.

“That’s just—” He cuts himself off, looking pained as he stares his uncle down. “You know what? I’m just gonna go change and pretend you never mentioned possessing royalty because I don’t need that stress right now.”

“That’s probably a good idea. I’ll take the twins to the kitchen and show them there’s more to food than diseased rats.” Derek makes a noise low in his throat, but decides not to press the issue as he disappears up the stairs.

The quiet of his room is a welcomed change, allowing him to wash off mud and dried pond scum with the cold water in the basin before changing into a pair of dark trousers and a blue shirt. He moves to the weapons bag he’d brought with him from Italy, strapping on holsters and weapons until he was satisfied he had everything he could carry without weighting himself down too much. He still felt naked, but it would have to do for now.

“Are you decent,” Stiles calls through the door, rapping a knuckle lightly against the wood.

“Would it matter,” he calls back, smiling as he adjusts his shoulder holster. The Prince strides into the room with the same sort of confidence as a man going into battle. It was doing things to Derek and he was suddenly glad that sparks couldn’t smell chemo signals like weres could.

“No, but you can only walk in on your sister so many times before the _knock first_ rule become engrained in your very soul.” He was grinning, hands shoved in the pockets of the trousers he had on. Derek takes in the simple brown tunic that hung loosely on his lithe frame, a gold medallion hanging around his throat.

“What’s that for?”

“It’s nothing magical.” He holds it up slightly, smiling as the golden, interlocking design catches the firelight. “My mother gave it to my father on their second anniversary and he gave it to me after she died. You would’ve loved him.”

“He sounds like he was a great man.”

“The best.” Stiles heaves a sigh, running slim fingers through his unruly hair and grinning up at him. And, yep, Derek was falling _hard_ for this sarcastic little shit.

It’s the sound of hoofbeats on cobblestones that draws their attention away from the conversation at hand, the noise loud in the otherwise quiet of the manor. That’s one thing Derek loved about the Vatican, there was always something going on; people confessing their sins upstairs, monks hammering at sword blades until the forging was complete and the edge was dangerously sharp, Scott blowing something up, or even Melissa berating them all for missing a meal or getting hurt during training. God, he’d give anything for the older woman to be here right now because she’s the only one that could convince Stiles to remain safely in the manor.

“Time to head out,” Peter yells from downstairs. Without another word, the two men join the others outside in the little courtyard. Two carriages have been brought out front, the teams of black horses stamping impatiently as if scenting the tension in the air. Or perhaps they were just nervous around werewolves.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to ride with you,” Stiles asks, the scent of anxiety souring the air between them. It always lingered around the Prince, hiding under his natural musk and something almost floral. “It’s not too late to change your mind.”

“I want you safe,” Derek replies, already opening the door to the first carriage. Peter and the twins were waiting inside, standing out in stark relief against the dark blue velvet that covered the bench seats. “Do you remember what to do in case something goes wrong?”

“Fight to the death.” When Derek’s only reaction is an arched brow, Stiles ducks his head with a sheepish smile. “Stick close to the twins and make our way to the ship.” The smile disappears as he meets Derek’s gaze again, the honey of his eyes darkening with sadness. “I’ve always wanted to sail across the Adriatic, but I never imagined it would be like this.”

“Your safety is the most important thing here. Deucalion can’t condemn your family to Purgatory forever if you’re no longer in Romania.” He seems to be mulling something over as his lips twist to the side, then he’s closing the space between them and pulling Derek in for a hungry kiss. There was nothing sweet or chaste about it, it was a desperate clashing of tongues and teeth that left the wolf breathless when they finally parted.

“Try not to die out there. I still have to show you how great I am in bed without your uncle ruining it.” Stiles climbs into the carriage and pulls the door closed after him, leaving Derek staring after him with a dumbstruck expression and mussed hair. He starts when Chris’ hand comes down on his shoulder, grip tight and almost painful as he squeezes.

“I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Scott,” the hunter says with a grim smile,” I have wolfsbane bullets and I will use them at the first sign of distress in that boy’s eyes.”

“To be honest, I think he’s more than capable of killing me himself.” Chris absolutely glows with pride, squeezing Derek’s shoulder one last time before stepping away.

“Oh, he is, but who do you think trained him?” And then the Argents were swinging gracefully up onto the bench in front of the carriage, Chris taking up the reigns while Allison brought out her own crossbow (apparently Scott had made two of the things and snuck the second one along just in case something happened to the first).

Derek watches the first coach pull away from the manor, the horses moving at a carefully controlled speed towards the woods and a path that most villagers steered clear of. Their path wound deep into the forest, bypassing the main roads; it would take longer to reach the docks, but it was the safer route by far. Scott and Derek would take the second carriage along the better known path, drawing any attention to themselves and away from the others. It was a solid plan that Stiles had concocted, but even solid plans could be derailed when the supernatural were involved.

“Let’s get this over with,” Scott sighs, taking up the reigns. “The sooner we get to the docks, the sooner I can see Allison.” He flinches, nose crinkling as though he smelled something foul. “Do you really think her father would shoot me if I made her sad?”

“I don’t think her father stands a chance,” Derek tells him, moving to sit beside him on the bench. He allows the tension to bleed out of Scott’s shoulders before he continues. “Allison would shoot you herself.”

“Yeah, isn’t she great?” The beta snaps the reigns and the horses shoot forward, faster than any others Derek has ever dealt with before. _Looks like Stiles had the right to brag about Romanian horses, after all_ , he muses with a fond tilt to his lips.

By the time their coach reaches the woods, Stiles’ is already too far ahead to be found in the mesh of bare branches and wilting vines that snake between them. Even on the well-traveled path, they wouldn’t reach the docks before nightfall, the road covered in dead leaves and slick with ice from last night’s rainfall.

The wolves take turns steering the horses and keeping watch throughout the day, only stopping long enough to clear the trail of debris before continuing onwards. The path through the mountains took more time than any of them thought it would, choked with snow that nearly reached the horses’ bellies. Still, he’d rather deal with the elements than other obstacles.

It’s not until they’re halfway through a dense forest in Budapest that Derek scents vampires on the wind. It was a moldering stench, like damp clothes left in a trunk, unmistakable even with the smell of pine needles permeating the air.

“Do you smell that, Der?”

“Unfortunately.” Derek has a grim set to his jaw as he hefts the crossbow up tighter against his shoulder. “Keep a tight hold on those reigns. The last thing we need right now is to crash.” Scott nods, the pure determination in his dark eyes making Derek feel he’d made the right choice all those years ago when he’d given Scott the Bite.

The first vampire swoops down as they’re making a turn along the pass, talons digging into Derek’s shoulder and nearly ripping him off the bench. Had he not been prepared, he would’ve been thrown into the trees, but he managed to slash his claws along the thin ankle and remain in his seat. Verona screeches as she flies off, blood dripping from the mauled flesh.

“Get us over the bridge!” This was the part of Stiles’ plan that made Derek’s stomach churn with nerves, the fabled bridge that covered a large ravine and just so happened to be _missing the entire middle of it_. Derek’s just brought the crossbow back up when Aleera snags the back of his coat and tosses him forward, only his quick reflexes saving him from toppling off the horse he lands on. “I should’a just stayed in France.”

“What?”

“Pay attention!” Scott nods, snapping the reigns hard and urging the horses to move faster. They had to time this perfectly or they’d both die. The front horses hit the bridge and then push off hard, Scott jumping at the same time and landing on one of the back horses.

Time seems to skip, one second they were mid-air over a drop that would crush them and the next they were on solid ground again on the other side of the ravine. The coach, however, wasn’t so lucky as it caught on the broken shards of wood and snapped free of the team, tumbling backwards towards the sharp stones and frozen river below. The two vampires dive in after it, wailing and shrieking as they went.

“They fell for it,” Scott sighs in relief. Derek doesn’t allow himself to relax yet, not even when he’s able to spot the other coach through the trees, not until there’s a near-deafening explosion behind him as silver stakes shoot out of the carriage with Scott’s Glycerin Forty-eight backing them. “Thank God.”

“Save the thank-you note for when we’re on the damn ship.” Derek steers the team over to the other carriage when the paths join, carefully maneuvering his way onto the bench next to Allison while Scott climbs inside with Stiles’ help. “Everything clear on your end?”

“So far, so good,” Allison confirms. Of course, that’s when everything decides to go to shit. As if Erica had some kind of sixth sense that allowed her to know when Derek was letting his guard down, the she-wolf jumped up out of the bushes, forcing the hunters to the side and Derek up on top of the cab.

“Goddammit!” He thrashes under Erica’s bulk, her shifted form monstrous with matted fur, something out of a Penny Dreadful instead of the lore. He’d never seen something like this before, not even in feral omegas, but perhaps this was just part of Deucalion’s curse on the Stilinski family. “Erica, enough! You don’t want to do this!”

Derek really didn’t want to be responsible for killing his mate’s sister, but that was looking more likely as their struggling broke one of the lamps, the heat of flames licking up his side making him cringe both from the searing pain and the memories that went with it. His wolf itched beneath his skin, taking control as the human part of him struggled with past sins, fangs dropping and a thunderous roar shaking his very bones. With one sharp jerk of half-transformed hands, he forced Erica off the coach and onto the hard path behind them.

He scrambles to sit up, ripping off his coat and beating at the flames until they were out, and he could focus again. It would take a few minutes for his accelerated healing to take care of the burns, but he would be fine by the time they get to the _Athena_.

“Derek,” Chris growls on his left,” a little help would be useful if it’s not too much trouble!” Derek leans over the edge, taking in the hunter’s disgruntled frown and the steep drop below.

“If I help you up, do you still plan on shooting me to defend Stiles’ honor?”

“Help me up or I’ll shoot you as I fall, Hale!” Derek shrugs and grabs the front of Chris’ shirt, hauling him up and back to the bench at the same time that the twin’s push Allison up on the other side. Chris manages to get them back in the woods, the trees providing meager shelter from any lingering vampires.

Like before, Erica seems to materialize out of thin air, but Derek was watching for her this time. He takes the brunt of her attack, pressing her down with his weight and an arm across her throat. “Everyone out! Get out of the coach!” Chris and Allison are the first ones to jump, Scott forcing Stiles out a moment later with the twins and Peter following after them. He waits a moment, letting the space between them grow before he grabs Erica by her arms and rolls them off the coach to the ground.

They tumble and roll along the path until Derek lands on top again, flashing his eyes and letting out a deep, rumbling roar that had Erica arching in pain beneath him. He could hear the cracking of her bones and feel the coarse fur sloughing off beneath his hands, the shift taking hold until she’s just a woman again, lying prone under him with bruises mottling her throat like a necklace from his arm earlier.

“Erica!” Derek allows Stiles to push him off, the Prince gathering his sister in his arms and holding her close. All things considered, she didn’t look too roughed up—a few burns from the lightning that were slowly healing, but other than that it was her clothes that looked the worst. The orange-red of her skirt was stained and torn in places and her blouse was missing a sleeve, her blonde hair a tangled mess around her oval-shaped face. “Erica, c’mon, open your eyes for me.”

“Mmm,” she moans, eyes fluttering open and revealing themselves to be a shade darker than Stiles’. She stares at her brother for a long while, managing a shaky smile as she tugs on a strand of his hair. “You look worse than I do, Mischief.” Stiles laughs even as tears make tracks along the curve of his cheeks, clasping Erica’s hand in his.

“Not all of us can maintain our good looks while being attacked.”

“It’s true, I have a gift.” She makes a face, shifting in his hold and wincing as the joint of her hip pops back into place. “Okay, help me up.” Chris and Scott do just that, each one taking a hand and hauling her to her feet, only letting go when she stopped swaying. “What’d I miss?”

“Well, Boyd accidentally knocked Jackson out while they were repairing the church,” Allison says, showing off her dimples as she grins. “He’s still pining for you, by the way.”

“I might just have to end his misery after we murder Deucalion. We can get married and run away together.” The women share a long hug, Allison using the bright scarf she kept around her wrist to keep Erica’s wild mane off her face. “Hey, what’s that awful smell?” Derek tilts his head back and sniffs the air, the musty smell almost making him gag. Before he could tackle the Stilinskis to the ground, Aleera has Stiles in her grasp and is soaring away with a delighted cackle.

 _I’m gonna kill her so hard_.


	13. Planning

There are days where Peter thinks his afterlife isn’t too bad, but then there are days like this one where he realizes it’s all just a bunch of _bullshit_. Not only did he have an enraged nephew to deal with, he had a beta reacting to that rage, a set of twins held together by sutures and hope, a pair of hunters that looked like they could spit fire at any time, and a Princess that wants to charge head first into Deucalion’s lair despite the fact that she can barely stand.

So, yeah, this afterlife thing is a crock of shit. He’d like his money back, please.

“Quiet,” Peter shouts, trying to make the bickering stop. All of the living souls around him were trying to come up with their own plan to get Stiles back and, really, there’s something seriously wrong with the situation if Peter’s the rational one here. He may be intelligent and the more handsome one out of the Hales (he’s dead, not blind), but he also knows his sanity’s not quite what it used to be.

When the arguing continues, growing louder if that was even possible, Peter feels his own rage well deep in his chest and echo through the woods in a roar that made even the alpha stumble back a few steps in alarm. Everyone looked to Peter in shock and he really wished he could say that he showed his usual aloofness to the situation, but he was too busy staring down at the fur that had sprouted along his fingers and forearm.

“How’s that possible,” Erica asks, taking a shaky step forward. “You said you couldn’t do that anymore.”

“I couldn’t,” Peter confirms, holding his hand up and watching the dark brown fur grow thicker in places. “I guess I needed the proper motivation.”

“Oh, so you can change when _Stiles_ is kidnapped, but not when I am.” Her tone was teasing rather than accusatory and that’s one of the main reasons Peter loved the kid. Well, that and her take charge attitude reminds him of Talia.

“I always did say he was my favorite.” She snorts, one of her hands hovering over his as though she ached to run her fingers through the fur. Peter knew from memory that his fur was soft and well-groomed, almost red during the summer months like his brother-in-law’s. “Now that I have your attention, we should find somewhere to bunk down for the night and come up with a plan after you’ve all had some rest. I know for a fact that a certain Stilinski heiress needs to eat.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yes, and I’m alive.” She scowls at his sarcasm, crossing her arms over her chest but not arguing further. She knew as well as he did that she was five minutes from fainting dead away. “There’s an inn a few miles from here in town that will house you all if you ask nicely. It wouldn’t hurt to mention our family name, Derek. The Hales helped rebuild a good portion of the village after a particularly bad winter.”

**~::*::~**

The city, as it turns out, is two days away and the ragtag group were nearly ready to drop by the time they saw thatched roofs and church spires. Even Peter was feeling weary by the time he laid eyes on the inn and he didn’t want to touch on how bad his companions smelled after the long trek. The little village he remembered had been abandoned and rebuilt inside the city limits of Budapest, looking slightly out of place amongst the stonework and cobbled streets.

“Thank God,” Chris groans, rubbing at his aching back. Peter would probably be doing much the same were he still alive and felt a touch of sympathy for the hunter. “Allison and I will get us rooms.” They barely made it three steps before Scott and Derek were leaping into motion, pulling the hunters back between them and the twins seconds before the red-haired crone dropped gracefully onto a snowy eave.

“You’ve been so much trouble to my master, Hale,” Aleera reprimands with a wagging of her finger. “Still, you both have something the other wants. He’d like to propose a trade.”

“Of what,” Derek demands, taking a step forward as the leader. “What do we have that he wants so badly?” Brown eyes flick to the twins and back to Derek, weighting the pros and cons of just snatching the wolves right then and there. The cons must win out because Aleera continues speaking.

“The monster for the Prince. I must say, though, he’s awfully fun to dress up and style. He’s like a pretty doll.”

“Are you sure you got the right Prince,” Ethan snorts, then grunts as Erica’s elbow collides with his midsection.

“Master says we can do the trade on your terms,” Aleera continues as though Ethan hadn’t spoken at all. She kept her gaze trained on Derek, recognizing him as the alpha and in charge of the situation despite the fact that Erica was just a few feet away.

“We’ll make the trade in a public place, somewhere with a lot of people so that your master’s other side will be locked away,” Derek states, leaving no room for arguing. Aleera considers this for a bit, chewing on a petal-soft lip before nodding.

“There will be a masquerade ball held in the old palace by the river tomorrow night, we can make the exchange there. It starts at midnight, so I’d advise you not to be late lest my master gets impatient.” She shoots straight up in the air, the pink of her dress twirling around her before changing into the leathery wings that carry her off on the wind.

Derek turns to face the rest of the group, ignoring the displeased expression the twins were throwing his way. _If looks could kill, then my dear nephew would be a spirit just like me_. “Do any of you know the palace she meant?” When no one speaks up, Peter lets out a sigh and nods his head. “What can we expect?”

“Trouble, of course,” Peter replies, shrugging. “We’ll be outnumbered no matter what we do, so we should do everything to blend in. Scott, Allison, and Erica can return to the manor to do some more research on where Deucalion’s castle is in case he’s moved on from Frankenstein’s, the twins should be hidden away where Deucalion wouldn’t think to look, and the rest of you will go to the ball tonight.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll stay with the twins. If nothing else, I can spook any humans that come near the hiding place.” Derek nods in agreement even if the others didn’t look too happy, though they didn’t voice any complaints. It was always strange to see humans fall into place amongst wolves, pack even if they didn’t quite realize it as they deferred to the alpha. “We’ll buy some horses and head back to Beacon Hills, there should be plenty of old costumes in the manor’s cellar.”

“And where are we supposed to hide the twins?” Peter’s grin is positively wolfish as he turns to look at the betas, their mismatched eyes widening in unison.

“Neither of you are claustrophobic, I hope.”


	14. Masquerade

Turns out that waking up to a vampire kissing you is way worse than waking up to twin werewolves trying to turn your intestines into garter belts. Unfortunately, Stiles has now experienced both of those things firsthand and, he has to say, he’s not a fan.

He makes a noise of disgust as Deucalion pulls away, wanting to wipe the taste of him off his lips and finding himself unable to do so. “What the hell have you done to me,” he demands. His voice is uneven at the end as he’s forced into a sharp dip before he’s brought back up against Deucalion’s chest. “Why can’t I do anything?”

“Because I don’t want you to, my dear,” the Count answers smoothly. “Compulsion is a wonderful little power, isn’t it?”

“Not on my end.” Deucalion smiles, leading them through some dance or another that Stiles had never bothered to learn. His ignorance didn’t seem to matter as his feet followed along almost gracefully in time to the music, some old song played on a violin and accompanied by a haunting operatic voice. “Why am I here? Why didn’t Aleera just kill me when she had the chance?”

“Because I ordered that you be brought to me whole.” Stiles spins and then is crushed back against Deucalion’s chest, hyper aware of the buttons along his new coat that dug into his front. “What better revenge than turning Stilinski’s descendent into one of my concubines?”

“You could always show that you’re the better person by letting me go.” The laugh that rumbles through the vampire is tense and unused, belonging to a wraith. Stiles grimaces as the vampire’s breath rolls over him, like old clothes and spoiled milk. It would’ve made him gag had he been able to. “Is there anything you could do that _wouldn’t_ make my skin crawl? Because I’m starting to think that’s your main goal in all of this.” The count turns him slowly, a hand at Stiles’ hip while the other kept his arm trapped against Stiles’ chest, his lips dry against Stiles’ neck.

“I am capable of many things, I assure you. Perhaps I could demonstrate them after I take care of your pet werewolves.”

“Leave them out of this,” Stiles growls, fighting hard against the blockade in his mind. He wanted to break the compulsion, to grab Deucalion by the collar and slam his face against one of the banquet tables or remove his head using one of the swords dotted throughout the hall.

“They will be dealt with soon enough, my boy.” Deucalion spins him out again, moving them both in a few graceful spins in time with the others and dipping him down sharply once more. Stiles was really starting to hate this whole dancing thing. “Don’t we make a lovely couple?” Stiles turns his head to the side with the vampire’s approval, finding himself taking in his own appearance in a gilded mirror. As if the gorgeously tailored costume he wore wasn’t odd enough, his was the only reflection in the glass, gold buttons and brocade standing out against the deep red of his coat and the black of his waistcoat.

“Oh, goddammit. Fucking Budapest and its vampire infestation.” He’d always known the wards around the city were slowly failing since the resident druid traveled to the Americas, but did Marin really have to leave before she found someone else to fill in? Surely there were other powerful druids in the world besides her brother.

“I’m in the business for a new lover, Mieczysław. You would fill that position beautifully.” Stiles winces at the implication as he’s straightened up again, feeling more like a puppet than a Prince. “One brief moment of pain and no one on this earth could separate us.” Stiles grunts as he’s forced flush against Deucalion’s chest again, his gaze obstinately looking away. That’s probably why he was able to spot the ghost that was making his way towards a fire-eater with a decisiveness that bordered on obsession. Peter meets his eyes, sending him a cheeky wink and twirling his finger as a signal to keep Deucalion occupied.

“Would you really want that, though? I mean, I’m annoying enough as a human, but imagine me as a vampire! And I have a lot of bad habits not suited to being undead. Like botany! I love growing things, but you need sunlight for that and everyone knows that sunlight turns vampires into little piles of ash and bone. Kind of like what happened to Marishka a week or so ago. You remember that, right? It was a good day.”

“The first thing to be beaten out of you would be your constant chatting.”

“If my chattering could be beaten out of me, then Jackson would have done it ages ago. Do you know Jackson? I should introduce you to Jackson.” Stiles watches Peter move as he rambles, the Count dipping him right as the ghost takes over the fire-eater’s body and sends a wave of hot flames against the vampire’s cloak. Deucalion drops Stiles with a furious howl, not noticing when two strong arms catch him and drag him through the crowd towards a pair of doors.

“Seriously,” Chris asks,” you had to go and bring Jackson into this?”

“I think they’d get along. Think about it, they’re both ridiculously arrogant and they both love a feisty redhead. Well,” Stiles amends as Chris finally helps him to his feet out in the dark hallway,” Lydia’s strawberry blonde and looks a lot better than Aleera ever could, but—”

“Stiles.”

“Right, not the point.”

“No, I need you to walk.” That’s when Stiles realizes they’ve been standing in the hall for nearly two minutes and he’s still not able to do more than move his head. “What’s wrong? Your face is doing this weird thing.”

“Maybe it’s your costume that’s making my face do that weird thing.” Because his face would be doing this weird thing even if he did have full control of his body, because Christopher Argent—the most serious man in all of Romania and the deadliest on top of that—was dressed as an honest-to-God _jester_. “The hat’s a bit much, don’t you think?” But Chris was giving him the Disapproving Parent Stare and Stiles relents. “Deucalion used compulsion on me.”

“He couldn’t have used it to paralyze your vocal cords?”

“Well, that’s just hurtful.” Chris puts a steadying hand on Stiles’ shoulder, turning slightly to the side and mumbling near-silently as though he were making calculations. “What’s happening here? Why does it look like you’re about to punch me?” And then Chris’ fist was connecting with Stiles’ jaw and he realized Chris looked like that because he actually was going to punch Stiles. The hand on his shoulder tightens and keeps him upright, the other one lightly patting Stiles’ cheek until the Prince’s eyes had refocused. “ _Ow_ , you absolute bastard, motherfucking _ow!_ ”

“Thank me later.” There’s a chorus of growling hisses coming from the ballroom and the men share a glance after looking to the doors. Flimsy wooden doors against an entire room full of vampires. Not really the best odds. “How about we go and find the others?”

“Best idea I’ve heard tonight.” They make it all the way to the end of the hall and are just about to make a sharp right when Peter comes barreling past them, arms working as if he’d completely forgotten that he was dead.

“Anything to worry about?”

“A lot of things,” Peter snaps, easily keeping pace with the humans as they ran towards a set of stairs. “I fucking told you I should’ve stayed behind with the twins! Now the vampires have them and Deucalion’s just unleased an entire ballroom full of pissed off vampires on my nephew!”

“As great as all this is,” Stiles yells as he’s guided along another series of hallways,” and it’s been just dandy so far, where the fuck are we going?”

“Through that window,” Derek calls, not even out of breath as he catches up with the others. “Stiles, think you can do a quick spell of some kind? Something that could mimic sunlight and turn the charging vampires into bones?”

“I can damn well try.” He focuses hard on the hand that Chris doesn’t have a death grip on, watching as the glowing ball grows steadily in his palm; a bright, glittering pink that was warm as spring sunlight and held the cloying sweetness of freshly bloomed Anemone flowers. He waits as long as he can before he tosses the ball of magic over his shoulder, just seconds before he has to duck his head as they go through the stained glass window at the end of the hall.

Bones and glass alike follow them into the polluted river below, cold water soaking through the heavy material of Stiles’ clothes. He breaks the surface with a gasp, kicking desperately to stay above the water as Chris and Derek come up on either side of him and Peter floats delicately above the water with a distasteful expression.

“I can’t believe that actually worked,” Derek gasps, then gives a nervous smile as Stiles glares at him. “I mean, I had faith in you all along?” Stiles’ lips twitch, but he refuses to smile while floating in the godforsaken Danube while it’s raining. Even if those clothes look like they’ve been painted on Derek in all the best ways, he still has some dignity left and he’ll save the ogling for when they’re somewhere warm. “Ah shit.”

“What now,” Chris asks, but then his lips press into a thin line as he spots something over Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles turns as well as he can in the water, squinting through the rain to see a small boat being paddled by a group of Dwergi, the unmistakable form of the Twins tied down in the middle of it.

“Ah shit,” Stiles echoes. Derek starts to swim towards them, fighting the rain and the river’s current, but not even werewolf strength adds up to much against a wolfsbane-covered gate that lowered into place when he was just five feet away from his goal. Chris helps Stiles over to him, only Stiles’ hand against Derek’s shoulder getting him to stop straining against the metal.

“Ethan,” Derek yells, beating his fist against the gate,” Aiden, I’ll get you both out of there! I swear to God!”

“That’s right, Der, we’re gonna get them back.” Stiles pulls against his doublet until the wolf finally turns to look at him. “We’re gonna get them and kill Deucalion, but we won’t accomplish either of those things if you hurt yourself too badly.” He grabs Derek’s wrists for emphasis, grasp light and soft as he looks at the angry burns along Derek’s knuckles and palms from the wolfsbane. Derek nods, sucking in a few deep breaths and drawing Stiles tight against him in a crushing hug. Stiles found he didn’t mind being so close to the wolf, not when he could feel the steadily beating heart or the warmth that seemed to burn inside him like an inferno.

“You’re right,” Derek nods. He pulls back from the embrace but doesn’t yet let go as those beautiful hazel eyes take in the way Stiles’ hair is plastered to his cheeks. “We should get you out of these clothes as well.”

“To think, it took me getting kidnapped by vampires for you to say that.”


	15. Hidden

It takes most of the night to get back to Beacon Hills and a few more hours on top of that before they actually made it back to Frankenstein’s castle due to the rain washing out the roads and Scott demanding that everyone get some rest before they stormed the castle. Derek had been reluctant, but he also knew that he’d be no use in a fight with the way he was feeling.

That’s why, two hours before sunset the next evening, his frustration seemed to reach its peak when they arrived at the castle to find all the equipment missing and no sign of the vampires ever being there in the first place. Even the children had been moved, no more green sacks to lend truth to what Stiles and Derek had seen two days before.

Scott and Allison are going over a few scraps of paper when the others make it back to the manor, looking up only when Derek is standing across the table from them. “Please tell me you two have learned something and all this research hasn’t been pointless,” he pleads, desperation bleeding into his voice. He was tired and still aching and he’d probably shove his head in the fireplace if the lovebirds hadn’t found anything.

“Did you ever doubt we would,” Scott asks, but his smile dims when Derek gives him the Brow of Disapproval. “Right, you’re not in the mood.” The young beta jumps up off the settee and drags a portrait closer for all of them to see an older man in a suit of armor, the paint chipping and cracked in places. “Deucalion is actually the son of Stilinski the Elder.”

“That’s common knowledge,” Erica says, arms crossed over her chest. “Allison could’ve told you that if you’d only asked her.”

“Allison _did_ tell him that,” the huntress remarks. “Right after he woke me up by tipping the entire sofa over.” She sends Scott a look as she says that, and the werewolf has the good sense not to meet Chris’ glower, shuffling across the room to pick up some fragile parchment.

“According to this rubbing,” Scott continues as if Chris wasn’t trying to weaponize his glare,” it all started when Deucalion was murdered by his right hand man, Dumitru Hale for treason against the Stilinski family in 1462. After that, the Hales left for Scotland and didn’t come back until Peter was ten.” Scott drops the rubbing and picks up another piece of parchment, folding it so that the middle disappeared, and a new drawing came together, depicting Deucalion and Satan touching hands. “After he died, he made a covenant with the Devil.”

“That’s how he came back,” Stiles breathes, striding forward to grab the parchment. “And to really damn himself, the Devil makes him drink the blood of humans to survive.”

“Hey, I’m the storyteller here.”

“Right, sorry.”

“As I was saying, your ancestor went to Rome to seek forgiveness for siring Deucalion to begin with.” Scott dips behind a table laden with books and pops back up holding an oil painting of a man kneeling in front of a row of windows and surrounded by golden light. “He made a covenant of his own with God: He would kill Deucalion and his family would earn eternal salvation in return.” Scott tosses the painting to Chris, forcing the hunter to stop glaring long enough to catch it. “Ally, do you still have the— Yes, thank you.”

Allison drapes a tapestry over a table for everyone to see, mostly using it for Scott to gesture at. Derek looks over the worn tapestry with furrowed brows, only half paying attention as Scott rambled nearby, taking in the careful stitching that went into the Stilinski family tree. Stiles and Erica were at the very bottom, more vague shapes than anything due to some of the stitches fraying or being eaten. _Erica Reyes-Stilinski_ was detailed beneath the blonde blob and _Mieczysław_ _Stilinski_ was detailed beneath the brunette one. And, wow, okay, he can suddenly understand why Deaton had so much trouble with the pronunciation.

“How the hell do you get Stiles out of _that,”_ he asks, pointing at the tapestry and looking over at the Prince.

“Stiles was my grandfather’s nickname,” Stiles shrugs,” and Mieczysław was my maternal grandfather’s name.”

“Could you two please pay attention,” Scott demands, waving his hands. “I actually found something useful while the both of you were running around Beacon Hills!”

“Was that before or after you and Allison broke in my sofa while tiny vampires were running rampant outside?” Scott and Allison’s cheeks darken in a blush, both very aware of the way that Chris’ fingers twitch towards the wolfsbane dagger at his waist.

“It was after, if you must know. Now, shut up and pay attention to me.” He grabs up a nearby book and thrusts it into Chris’ hands, as though the hunter couldn’t maul him as long as his hands were full. “Stilinski couldn’t bring himself to murder his first born, so he banished him to an icy fortress with no way for him to return from.”

“And that’s why he was given wings,” Erica realizes. “Who needs doors when you can just soar above everyone? However, we don’t have wings, so we need to find that door.” She nods resolutely, looking every bit as determined as her portrait made her out to be. If Derek actually had more than a passing interest in women, he could see himself with her as easily as he could with her brother. “Have you found it?”

“No, but I’m willing to bet your ancestor left a clue for it.” Scott knocks his hand against a wood carving along the wall, the panel spinning to reveal a painting with scrollwork along its four sides. “If there’s any way to actually find the door, then the clue will be somewhere in this manor. It’s just a matter of finding it.” Derek thinks on that for a moment, eyes widening as he remembers the conversation he’d had with Deaton a month ago.

“When is a door not a door,” he mumbles under his breath.

“When it’s ajar. Why are you asking us riddles?” But Derek was already moving, the others scrambling to keep up with him as he heads over to the massive painting that Noah Stilinski used to brood in front of. Just as Derek remembered, there was Latin all along the left side of it, continuing down until it was obscured by a chair. Derek shoves the chair out of the way, pulling the scroll out of his coat pocket and rolling it out before slotting it into the empty space in the corner.

“Scott, you said the painting only worked after you read the Latin on it?”

“Yes.”

“Then read this and prove my theory right.”

“You wanna tell us what your theory is first?” Derek gives a sharp shake of his head, not wanting to jinx himself when they might be so close to ending all of this. Scott shrugs and begins to read, the words less than a whisper as he slowly sunk to his knees to finish the inscription. The alpha tenses as his friend reaches the last part, able to hear the words even if no one else around him could. _“In the name of God, open this door_.” The words had just left his mouth when lines of ice began to crack across the map, eating away at the painting until they were all staring at their reflections in a mirror.

“Well, I was half-right, at least. Why would your ancestor try to hide a mirror, though?”

“Because it’s not actually a mirror,” Peter fills in, stepping up close to it. “Stiles, didn’t you say you were the only one that cast a reflection at the ball?” Stiles nods, eyes wide as he seems to grasp whatever Peter’s hinting at. “Think about it, why hide a mirror unless Deucalion wouldn’t see it as such? _This is the door!_ ”

“Peter,” Chris says, stepping up beside him,” if you were still alive, I’d kiss you.”

“If I were still alive, I’d let you.”

“Let’s get the cure and see if it works on ghosts,” Allison suggests, shrugging when everyone turns to look at her. “What? They’ve been flirting since before I was born, they just couldn’t do anything about since my father was married and Peter was dead. Maybe the cure could help with that.”

“We’re using the cure on Erica.”

“No, we’re not,” Erica says decisively. “As long as Derek can stick around long enough to help me get control, then I won’t need the cure.” She eyes the older werewolf, baring her teeth in a smile that put him on edge. “And, from the way he and my brother have been sneaking glances, I’d say he’s more than happy to stick around.”

“Well, alright then, that’s settled. Who’s going through the creepy ice mirror first?” That was the real dilemma, none of them knowing what awaited them on the other side or even if they’d be able to come back. When nobody’s moved after five minutes of staring, Stiles reaches out a hand and nearly punches it right through the glass before the werewolves could yank him backwards, Derek hefting him over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

“You have absolutely zero impulse control, don’t you,” Derek asks, pinching at Stiles’ ankle when the man tries to get free.

“Impulse control is not a thing that runs in our family,” Erica confirms. “Why do you think one of us made a deal with the Devil? We’re a spiteful people.” Just to show how true that was, the blonde sticks her arm through the glass, ice crackling around her arm and frost tinting the surface. “Well, it’s cold on the other side.”

“Icy fortress,” Scott remarks,” I said he was banished to an icy fortress. Does no one actually listen to anything I say?”

“To be fair,” Allison tries,” there’s a lot going on and it’s hard to remember the smaller details.” Erica brings her arm back out, showing everyone the slowly melting snow along her open palm and the sleeve of her blouse. “We’ll go in teams. Scott and I will go first to make sure the way is clear; Erica, Derek, and Stiles will come after; Dad, you and Peter will come last. Understood?”

“Loud and clear,” Chris nods, handing a torch off to his daughter. “You have your gun?” She nods, patting the holster settled low on her hip. “Be careful, we have no idea what’s waiting for us on the other side.”

“Don’t worry, I had the best instructor in all of Europe teaching me how to handle vampires.” Chris beams with pride, but that doesn’t stop him from tensing as Allison and Scott disappear through the mirror. Derek takes a deep breath before he and Erica follow after them, Stiles still flung over the were’s shoulder.

“What’s it look like,” the Prince asks, unable to see anything aside from the stone wall that formed the back of the mirror.

“You don’t wanna know,” Derek replies, staring up at the castle looming above them. It seemed to be made up of sharp corners and nightmares, covered in freezing snow that fell from an overcast sky; as if that wasn’t bad enough, skeletons were impaled on pikes on either side of a long bridge, a warning to anyone who came here looking for trouble.

“Dear God in heaven,” Peter says as he and Chris come through next. “Deucalion needs to fire his servants because they’re doing an awful job.”

“His servants consist of Dwergi and Harris,” Stiles reminds them,” so the guy’s getting what he paid for.” Derek snorts at Stiles’ tone, hefting him down and setting him on his feet. Stiles turns to look up at the castle, the blood draining from his face when he sees the skeletons. “Yuck.”

“That’s definitely Harris’ work.” As one, the group picks their way around various bits of architecture that had fallen at some point or another during the four hundred years, trying to ignore the cold and the smell of decay that permeated the place. They stop once they reach the massive front doors, taking in the thick layer of ice that covered the wood and iron that would be impossible to breach without alerting everyone to their arrival.

“Scott, remember that time you snuck out of the Vatican so you could see that traveling circus,” Derek asks, eyeing the opening a few feet above the doors.

“Yeah,” Scott nods, catching on when he follows Derek’s gaze. “That’s going to be pretty tough while carrying the humans.”

“There’s enough of us to take one human each, Peter can just float through the doors like a normal ghost.” Peter makes a sound of protest but doesn’t say anything when Derek shoots him a look. “Erica, do you think you can hold your brother’s weight?” The Princess looks her brother over, lips curving into a frown as though she dislikes what she sees.

“Only because he’s not eating enough,” she says. As she pinches Stiles’ ear between her fingers, Derek realizes that she and Cora must never meet. They’d surely take over the world if they did. “What did I tell you about eating regularly?”

“Erica,” Stiles grumbles, pulling at her wrist to no avail,” we’re in the middle of something here.”

“I don’t care where we are, I’ll still kick your ass for not taking care of yourself while I’ve been gone.” Chris clears his throat, doing the complicated brow thing again until the Princess released her brother with a scowl of her own. It was obvious that she loved her little brother more than anything in the world, and Derek could definitely relate to that sentiment. Younger siblings were mostly a pain in the ass, but they were more precious than gold.

“Let’s just get this over with before I die of embarrassment.” Derek bends down so that Chris can climb up onto his back, then the wolf springs up off the ground and uses the rough stone on either side of the doors to launch himself further up and then through the opening. They land in the middle of an open entryway, Chris letting out a muffled curse as he took in the thousands of sacks hanging from the ceiling, stretching on further than even Derek could make out.

“Those could wipe out all of Romania in a week,” the hunter says, shaking his head. “We have to kill Deucalion.”

“That’s the plan,” Derek promises. There’s a long line of stone basins that ran down the middle of the room, the flames casting strange shadows over the stone columns and hanging cables. The other two wolves land on either side of him, then Peter follows a moment later and grumbling on under his breath about the indignity of being dead. “Better get moving.”

“You’re the boss.” Derek does his best not to preen under the older man’s words, but no one mentions it if he stands a little taller. Derek leads the way further into the hall, nearly making it to the very end when Derek’s sharp sense of hearing picked out footsteps heading their way. Before long, a lanky man in rags comes into view with a few black cables wrapped around one shoulder.

“Harris do this,” the man was grumbling,” Harris do that. If I weren’t here, that bastard would have nothing to show for all his planning.” He turns his head to the right and freezes when he spots the group, eyes widening almost comically behind his spectacles. “How on earth…?”

“Do us a favor and don’t run,” Stiles advises. The pale man watches them for a second longer before attempting to bolt down the corridor, a blast of Stiles’ magic making him stick to the wall before he could even move his feet.

“Please- Please don’t kill me.” He was struggling against the pink goo that held him in place, boots scratching against stone as the group comes closer. “Please, I don’t— I never….” He trails off with a whimper when Erica wraps slender fingers around his throat, claws pricking at the skin enough to draw blood to the surface.

“Give me one good reason not to tear you open,” she growls, eyes flashing gold.

“Because I know where the cure is. I-I can show you and you don’t have to be a monster anymore.” Derek and Scott flash their eyes in response to that, letting out low growls as they crowd nearer. Harris squeezes his eyes shut and presses closer to the wall, like he was trying to become one with it through sheer force of will. “A-and I know how to kill Deucalion.”

“Tell us how,” Derek commands,” and know that I’ll let Erica kill you slow if you lie to me. How do we kill Deucalion?”

“The bite of a werewolf is the only way.” Harris’ heartbeat was erratic from fear, but there was no sign of a lie as he spoke, Derek nodding slowly for Erica to release him. “He made the cure in case his wolf turned on him.” His pale eyes settle on Peter, noticing the way the ghost was shifting anxiously. “It works on all supernatural creatures, it can return them to their natural state.”

“Good, then you can show my friends where it is.” Derek nods at Stiles and the goo dissolves into nothing, though some of it remain in Harris’ dark hair. “Chris, you still got that dagger on you?” Chris pulls it out without hesitating, giving it a few artful turns around his fingers before sheathing it again. “Cut off pieces of Harris if you feel like he’s tricking you.”

“You got it,” he agrees, grabbing the back of Harris’ coat and dragging him away from the wall.

“Scott and Peter will go with you to make sure nothing sneaks up behind you.” Scott and Peter move to stand next to the hunter, Scott shifting and letting out a soft rumble that Derek returns. “Stiles, you and Allison will find the twins and set them free. No matter what happens, you have to get them out of here.” Stiles doesn’t look too happy about splitting up, but he doesn’t protest as he moves to stand next to Allison. “Erica, you and I get to hunt down a vampire.”

“It’s about damn time,” she grouses, fangs dropping and eyes glowing a deep gold. Derek was about to turn towards the west tower when he felt an insistent tug on his coat sleeve, allowing himself to be turned without fighting. He’d been expecting his beta, but instead he got an armful of Stiles and lips pressed against his own, a low groan rumbling through him as he pulled his mate closer. All too soon, Stiles was pulling away and dragging Allison with him down one of the hallways, leaving Derek staring after him and kiss-stupid.

“I’m gonna marry him.”

“Let’s just focus on surviving the night first, Romeo.”


	16. Battles

I played this [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrutzRWXkKs) pretty much on repeat while writing this chapter, so you guys might take a listen. 

Peter’s rarely glad that he’s dead, but when it comes to having to climb stairs for over ten minutes he’s happy to change his tune. After all, floating is way easier than dealing with tired legs or aching feet. “Do you have to look so smug,” Chris asks, but there was a faint hint of a smile in his eyes.

“There are few perks of being a ghost that I actually get to enjoy,” Peter answers,” so yes, I _do_ have to look smug, darling.” Chris rolls his eyes, but he sends the ghost a fond glance that had Scott wondering if it was too late to pitch himself down the stairs to escape. Peter had always enjoyed flirting with Chris, though most of it had been playful until Chris was no longer bound to Victoria.

He could remember cold afternoons spent walking along the perimeter of the village when they were teenagers, back when they thought they had all the time in the world and might even end up together in the end. Gerard had quickly put an end to those thoughts when he arranged a marriage for Chris and Victoria, then he sealed the deal when he and his psychopathic daughter burned down Hale House. They were getting a second chance though and Peter really wished he could rub it in Gerard’s smug face.

“Is that it,” Scott asks once they made it to the east tower. There was only one room at the top of the stairs, a spacious, mostly empty chamber with a large syringe incased in some sort of frozen liquid and set carefully on a pedestal.

“Yes,” Harris nods, looking everywhere but at the others. “Yes, that’s the cure.”

“What’s it in?”

“How should I know?” Chris takes out his dagger and presses it firmly to Harris’ thigh, no doubt over some vein or another that would have the man dead within five minutes. Or maybe he was threatening to cut off the man’s dick. Peter wasn’t judging. “I swear I don’t know! The only reason I know it’s here is because I got curious one day while my master was sleeping!”

“Scott,” Chris asks, cutting his gaze to the wolf.

“He’s telling the truth so far,” Scott says. Chris slowly lowers the dagger and takes a step back, free hand fisted in Harris’ ratty coat. The man looked malnourished after spending a year in Deucalion’s company, scars marring his throat where the vampires had fed when they weren’t able to get humans from the village.

“Now for the real question.” Chris turns to look at the chamber, not easing up on his hold. “Who’s going in there first?”

“Harris can be our guinea pig,” Peter decides, nodding at the room. “If nothing breaks him once he’s gone a few feet in, then I’d say we’re good.” The others seemed to agree with that and Chris shoves Harris into the room, taking note of the heavy gate hanging above them. If that thing came down while they were all inside, then the only way out would be through the window on the other side of the room.

“Well, it seems safe.”

“Is that your gut talking or the fact that Harris hasn’t died horribly yet?”

“A little bit of both.” Peter nods and steps into the chamber after another few minutes, taking a close look around for any traps that could be tripped by clumsy humans. When he finds none, he waves the other two inside.

“Which one of you idiots are going to stick your hand into a viscous material and grab it,” Harris asks, his smile far too conceited for his own good.

Of course, that smile vanished when everyone turned their gazes on him.

**~::*::~**

“Are you sure we’re going the right way,” Stiles asks, doing his best to ignore the stitch in his side. They’ve been climbing for what seems like hours, so how is he the only one that looks like he’s about to keel over? It’s not fair that the huntress doesn’t even have a hair out of place despite all the moving they’ve done.

“Are you going to ask me that every five minutes,” Allison demands, looking at him over her shoulder.

“Probably.” She snorts and keeps moving, stopping whenever the hall they’re following branches off. The last thing they needed was to lose their element of surprise before they even reached the twins. Thankfully for everyone involved, the pair have been sneaking into places they shouldn’t since they were old enough to walk on tip toes, so it was no real hardship to navigate the castle. “How do you know we’re going the right way?”

“Instinct.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

“A lot of hoping and guessing, then.” Stiles stops and throws his hands in the air, the look he sends her nothing short of _are you insane, woman_. Allison either ignores the look entirely or just doesn’t see it because she keeps moving in those long strides that really shouldn’t be possible in the heels she was wearing. Realizing that she wasn’t going to respond, Stiles grumbles under his breath and jogs to catch up with her.

They make their way slowly down one of the darker halls until they can make out the faint zap-crackle of electricity and pained howls. Allison and Stiles share a look before beginning a dead sprint in that direction, following the noise to the base of one of the towers on the west side. Derek would be nearby, Stiles realized, hunting a vampire with Erica at his side. _God, I know we haven’t talked in a while, but please let Derek and my sister be successful_.

It didn’t take them long to locate a set of stairs that looked like they went all the way to the top in a steep spiral. Stiles makes a face, but he doesn’t complain as they start up them two at a time, his lungs burning in protest at all the sudden exercise. They make it to the top in just under fifteen minutes, running over to a single, arched window across the chamber to look up.

“Ah hell,” Stiles complains, staring up at the loose chain banging against the side of the wall and the sparks of lightning showering from the very top.

“Looks like all those times Dad made us climb during training are about to come in handy.” Allison hefts her top half out the window and latches onto the chain, using it to keep her balance as she skillfully climbs up the side of the tower. Stiles whines and the muscles in his arms start aching at just the thought of climbing.

He waits until she’s higher up before copying what she had done, cursing the winter storms that make the chain slick and dangerous under his hands. It’s slow going, the wind and his lack of coordination hindering him more than it did Allison, but they both make it to the top eventually. She helps him crawl over a short ledge onto the roof, the only sign that she was affected being her labored breathing. Other than that, her dark hair still hung in loose waves down her back and her chin was still tilted up confidently.

Stiles was miffed, to put it lightly.

“Now we just have to find a way over there.” Allison points at the same contraption that Erica had been strapped into, the roofs separated by at least a five foot gap. The tattoo burns along his arm as he calls on his magic, feeling the strength go out of him as a shine of pink begins to bridge the gap. “Stiles, you’re draining yourself.”

“Seems to be what I good at. Well, this and making werewolves swoon whenever I bend over.” He gives her a cheeky smile, nudging her forward when the magic is more solid. “After you, Miss Argent.”

“Such a gentleman.”

“Not even slightly, you’re going first in case a Dwergi pops up like some kind of mutated daisy.” She grins and helps him to his feet, making sure he was steady before crossing to the other roof with a grace he envied. The bridge stays up until they’re on the next roof, then dissolves into a sprinkling of glitter that was ignored as they made their way over to the platform.

“Allison,” Ethan grunts, pupil blown wide in the blue eye. “You need to get out of here! You’re going to get electrocuted!”

“When has that ever stopped us before,” she asks, yanking on the band of leather that pinned them to the table.

“Us?” Stiles comes to stand next to her, taking in the metal bolts that went directly into the twins’ chest and abdomen.

“Oh great,” Aiden complains,” you brought the entire clown section.”

“Keep that sarcasm handy, Aiden,” Stiles says, grabbing the end of one strip of leather and letting his magic surge through it to weaken the metal,” ‘cause this is gonna hurt.”

“I doubt you’re capable of hurting a fly, let alone us— Holy mother of God!”

And if Stiles happened to grin, well, no one called him out on it.

**~::*::~**

“So, you’re fucking my brother.” Derek nearly chokes on his own spit as he turns wide eyes on Erica. The she-wolf was looking at him with brown eyes, but they were no less scary than the beta gold she’d sported a few hours ago. “Relax, you’re hardly the first guy even if you are the first wolf.”

“I don’t feel reassured.”

“It’s not like I’m going to gut you and use your innards to string you up in the middle of the village as a warning if you break his heart or anything.” They way she was looking at him made him wonder if she’d done that before, then her eyes flashed and he wondered if he could hide out in a small hole until she felt less hostile towards him. “What’s wrong, Derek? You look like someone just walked over your grave.” Without waiting for a response—which was smart because Derek couldn’t formulate one to save his life—she flounces off with a smile that made Derek fear for his life.

“God, the scary smile’s hereditary,” he mutters, hunching his shoulders and continuing after her.

“You comin’, sweetheart?” He shakes his head, but follows all the same, not wanting to see what she would do if she thought he wasn’t paying enough attention to the situation at hand. “Do you smell that?” Derek inhales deeply and lets it out slowly through his mouth, making a face at what smelled like burnt blood.

“Ozone.”

“Is that something I’ll have to get used to?”

“It’s the Dwergi.”

“As if they weren’t bad enough when they were stealing Lydia’s jewelry.” Derek quirks up a brow and she shrugs. “Our resident banshee doesn’t take kindly to mountain-dwelling creatures trying to take the engagement ring right off her finger. When they joined up with Deucalion, she painted a banner that said _I told you they should’ve been brutally murdered_. She’s very dramatic that way.”

“And you’re not?”

“No, I am. Let’s go stab Deucalion in the face now.”

“Alright, sounds good.” They follow the scent to the laboratory, staying in the shadow and scanning the room for the dark-haired vampire. The space—nearly as large as the entire Stilinski manor—was crawling with the Dwergi as they went about their jobs, sparks sizzling where they hit the large vats of liquid. “I don’t see him.”

“Yeah, and he’d stick out easily in this crowd.” There’s a loud shrieking above and then a keening wail as a slim form came crashing down from the opening in the roof, crashing through scaffolding like it was little more than twigs. “Was that—”

“Surely not…” There’s a long groan from the pile of splintered wood and then a pale hand is shooting out of it. “Goddammit, Stiles.” She lets out a heavy sigh and stalks forward through the mass of bodies, shoving Dwergi out of her way as she goes with Derek following to watch her back.

What’s with Stilinskis and marching headfirst into danger?

**~::*::~**

“Just grab it,” Chris growls, shoving Harris forward.

“What if it’s acid?”

“Then you’ll be the first to know.” Harris growls something under his breath, but torchlight catches on the sharpened blade of the dagger in Chris’ hand and he’s suddenly much more cooperative. With short jerky movements, he moves over to the frozen globe and reaches out to touch it with shaking hands.

“This is why I joined the vampires. Humans are just awful.”

“Wait,” Peter interrupts, he and Scott looking towards the window. “Did you guys hear something?” Chris started to shake his head, but then Aleera was sweeping inside in a flurry of pink silk and cackling laughter. She lands across from Harris and Chris, the two men sharing a look before surging forward to knock the frozen blob off the pedestal. It shatters as it hits the stone, sizzling acid splashing up against the vampire and burning through dress and skin alike.

“I told you it could be acid!”

“Scott, get the cure!” Chris can see Scott moving in his peripheral, but his main focus remained on the screaming vampire in front of him. She tears her hands away from her face, the muscle pitted and the right side of her jawbone entirely visible. Needless to say, it wasn’t a good look for her.

“Always a pleasure, Aleera,” Chris says, adjusting his hold on his knife as he gets ready to fight. “You’ve looked better.” She growls and jumps over the puddle of acid, her claws gouging his chest before he could drive the dagger home in her side, the redhead spinning away with a yowl. The knife clatters against a wall when she tosses it away, her canines lengthening into razor sharp teeth before she attacked again.

“Keep her busy,” Scott calls from somewhere on his right. Chris can’t hold in his surprised yell as he’s thrown across the room, nor the grunt as his back collides with the unforgiving stone wall.

“No problem.” Harris is the next to he thrown, though he’s less fortunate and ends up sailing right out the window. Aleera grabs the front of Chris’ coat and hauls him up until the toes of his boots can barely scrape the ground, her face healed completely as she snarls at him.

“You know, I’ve always hated you Argents,” she says, nails digging into the sensitive flesh of his neck. “Walking around like you own half the village when you’re really just high class murderers! I’m going to kill you, Christopher, and then I’m going to kill your precious baby girl and bathe in her blood.” Chris’ gaze flashes towards the others in time to see Peter writhing on the floor, eyes flashing a vivid blue as fur began to sprout along his cheeks and hands.

“You know what I think?” It was getting harder to breathe, but his hand was steady as he grabbed the pistol hidden beneath his coat. “I think you should save the monologuing for after you’ve won.” She looks confused as a _crack_ echoes through the chamber, turning purple eyes down towards the hole in her chest as black lines spiral from it.

“You….” She drops him and scratches at her chest, as though the bullet wound was only in her mind, an illusion that could be wiped away if she scrubbed hard enough. Chris brings the pistol up again, squeezing the trigger and watching as the bullet ripped through her heart, her flesh curling away like burnt paper before she exploded in a shower of ash and bone fragments. Chris frowns as he wipes the ash off his face, frowning at the werewolves.

“I fucking hate it when they do that.”

**~::*::~**

Stiles is staring around in a half-concussed daze when Erica and Derek reach him, having to dig him the rest of the way out of the ruined wood. There a long gash along his hairline that was bleeding heavily, but Derek could see it slowly knitting itself closed thanks to the protective magic inside of him. “What’s it,” he slurs, squinting up at the wolves as they drag him out of the mess. “That’s one big bird coming our way.” Derek’s brows furrow in confusion, but then talons are gripping the back of his coat and he’s being casually tossed across the room until an iron vat stops him, something cracking in his shoulder. “Seeya, Sourwolf.”

“Stiles,” Erica groans, guiding her brother against one of the walls,” we really need to talk about your nicknames someday.” Then she was flying as well, landing in a heap beside Derek. The alpha has to use his left arm in order to prop himself up as the other shoulder heals, forced to watch as Deucalion looms over Stiles’ prone form.

“You smell bad.” Deucalion actually looks offended when that’s the first thing Stiles says to him, brows knitting together over his red eyes. “You smell like _death_. It’s not attractive. Derek doesn’t smell like that.” Stiles’ head flops to the side so that he can see the werewolf beyond Deucalion. “You smell like sunshine!” Derek looks over at Erica and she offers up a dry smile.

“He’s always a little loopy after head trauma.”

“Understandable,” Derek says, getting back on his feet and helping her up. “Can you shift?” She doesn’t bother with a verbal answer, easing into a beta shift and allowing a deep growl to rumble through her chest. Derek answers it with a growl of his own, dropping down onto four paws and readying himself to pounce.

“Do you really think you idiots can kill me,” Deucalion asks as he finally turns to face them. “She’s still fresh, Derek, unable to control the shift fully. It would be easy for me to break her pretty little neck.” Derek lowers his shoulders, allowing his claws to flex and gouge the floor with another growl that toed the line of a real howl. Deucalion seemed to get the message, because he shifted into a bulky, gray form and his wings flexed behind him.

Derek leaps forward before Deucalion could leave the ground, dragging him down and delivering a deep slash of claws across his chest before the vampire could process it. Everything after that was nothing but a red-tinted haze that he would only remember parts of weeks down the road.

Deucalion slamming against metal framework that knocked the breath out of him. The feeling of warm blood covering his paws as he swipes his claws across the vampire’s face. Erica knocking into them both and driving the Count to the ground, ducking and rolling upright as Deucalion struggled to free his wing from spinning machinery.

Derek lets an alpha roar tear out of his throat, shaking the glass in their frames and forcing Deucalion to cover his ears at the piercing sound. The vampire nearly escapes at one point, shooting up in the air and letting his wings carry him before a ball of pink goo wrapped around his ankles and yanked him back to the ground.

“Don’t fuck with my family,” Stiles yelled from his spot on the ground. He looked almost transparent, the lifeforce seeming to drain right out of him the more he uses his magic. “Erica, kill him!” But Deucalion was already moving, cutting himself free of the magic and tearing forward at a terrifying pace.

He’s nearly on top of Derek when the black-fletched arrow embeds itself in his stomach, driving him back half a foot. Derek’s head snaps up to the left as Allison and the twins drop into view from the roof, the huntress seated comfortably on the twins’ shoulders with another arrow notched already. “Give up, Deucalion,” she snarls at him,” you’re outnumbered.” With the vampire distracted, Derek moves to help Stiles up, a hand securely around his waist to keep him from wobbling too much.

“You’ve terrorized my village for centuries, Deucalion,” Erica says, lisping around her fangs. “You killed my father, you turned me into your personal lapdog, and then you tried to turn my baby brother into your concubine. You’re just a monster that hides under kids’ beds and in their closets.” Stiles straightens a little at that, like he recognized the speech.

“And you know what they say about monsters like that, don’t you,” he demands.

“They can be defeated,” comes Peter’s voice from the doorway. He was no longer floating or half visible, he was a fully solid werewolf with claws that curled towards his palms. “All you have to do is believe.” Deucalion hunches in on himself slightly, trying to back away only to realize he was surrounded on all sides by enemies. “And do we have any belief left in us, group?”

“Enough for Beacon Hills and then some,” Chris answers with a grim smile. Deucalion makes to fly off again, the only clear direction for him to go in, but whip-like magic caught him around the middle and tethered him to the floor, his claws doing no damage as Stiles drew strength from his mate. Erica closes the distance between them, Stiles limping to stand beside her so that he could keep a booted foot pressed firmly over Deucalion’s chest.

“Deucalion, you are charged with crimes against God and high treason against the ruling family,” Erica declares with a dangerous glint in her eyes. “The sentence for which is immediate execution.”

“Let’s see if the Devil wants to make any deals with you once he discovers you were taken down by a bunch of teenagers,” Stiles adds, his grin almost feral as he bared sharp white teeth. Erica bites down hard on Deucalion’s throat, ripping out a good chunk of it with a snarl that echoed off the stone walls. Deucalion’s hands come up to his throat, trying to stem the spoiled blood pouring out with no success. It was strange to see him dying; he didn’t explode or degrade like his brides had, Deucalion just seemed to shrivel in on himself until he’s nothing but stained skin pulled taunt over unmoving bones.

No one talks at first, their gazes fixed on the dead vampire as though they were expecting him to spring back into wakefulness and slaughter them all. And then Peter is breaking the silence with his customary charm and tact.

“Jesus Christ, I need a drink.”


	17. Home

Five years later finds Derek and Stiles in their bed, curled up around each other like contented cats as Derek lightly rubs his fingers over the tattoo that spanned the full length of Stiles’ arm. There were more flowers adorning the vines now, shades of yellow and pink and bright red, but his gaze always went back to the purple flowers that had bloomed the day they had met.

“Anticipation,” he says, recalling a book in the library he’d picked over one lazy afternoon. Stiles’ brows furrow and he looks up at the wolf, like he was trying to read Derek’s thoughts to see what he meant. Derek smiles and grasps Stiles’ left wrist in a gentle hold, raising it just enough that both men could see the fully bloomed flowers and vines. “Anemone flowers also symbolize anticipation.”

“Are you saying my magic was dropping hints that I should take you to my bed?”

“Or realize you love me.”

“Yeah, I guess that could be a thing, too.” He snuggles closer and rests his head back over Derek’s chest to hear the steady heartbeat under his ear, but he keeps those gorgeous eyes on his tattoo. The Alstroemeria had bloomed in vivid realness once Deucalion was killed and the Stilinski family were allowed entrance to Heaven; the white Calla Lilies appearing when his niece was born, and so Lily is what Erica and Boyd decided to call her; and the red Carnations—the newest of the bunch—slowly unfurled throughout the day just last March when Scott and Allison were finally able to be married.

Derek loved to watch the new ink add color to his husband’s pale skin, like artwork that continued to evolve and change as the years went by and more things happened. He loved figuring out what each flower was for and what it meant, but he loved the Anemone blossoms the most. He always came back to those blooms, trailing his lips over them whenever he could get away with it (basically whenever his uncle Peter was at least more than two rooms away).

“You’re obsessed,” Stiles remarks drowsily.

“Do you want me to stop?” Their voices were quiet as the night wore on around them, cold wind blowing in from the mountains and the scent of rain heavy in the air.

“Never.” Derek smiles into Stiles’ hair, breathing in the floral scent that was totally and completely his. They were quiet for another few minutes, Stiles drifting in and out of a light doze while Derek contented himself with listening to his husband’s heartbeat. It was always faster than most humans’, more akin to a rabbit’s, and Derek had to remind himself that a fast heartrate is normal for sparks.

Down the hall, he could hear Peter and Chris laughing about something and felt his lips twitch upwards in response. It was nice to hear laughter in the manor after getting so used to it at the Vatican, the sound soothing something inside him that had been on edge for months after the vampires were killed. A hush had fallen over the village, like they were on the lookout for some new creature to be expelled from Hell to torment them. It took nearly a full year for that dread to go away.

 _Jesus, I’ve been here five years and it doesn’t even feel like it_. He’d never stayed in one place for so long that he could actually remember, always on the move to defeat the rogue supernatural elements or delivering missives to other religious places from the Vatican. He used to get jittery if he was in one place for a month, never understanding Cora’s ability to settle down once she’d found her mate, but now he got it. Sure, he still felt the itch to travel from time to time, but that was usually calmed by a single touch of Stiles’ fingers scratching through his hair or Lydia sneaking him an extra slice of her famous cobbler when Jackson wasn’t looking.

He smiles as he thinks of his new family, people who he would fight and die for—he nearly had, which he always brings up whenever Allison makes Cranachan on Christmas Eve. He had a new set of betas that had pretty much adopted him once it was established that he was staying for as long as their Prince would have him (and their Princess would allow him to keep his innards inside him instead of on display), the twins and Jackson joining Scott and the Hales on their monthly run through the forest whenever the full moon hung high in the sky.

In a little under a month, two more betas would arrive from France, ready to expand their little shop into something more (why people thought Isaac’s collection of scarves should be sold worldwide was beyond him). Cora was excited to put her Hungarian and Romanian to good use while Isaac was thrilled to meet the man that could turn Derek into a puppy, though the curly-haired wolf had another thing coming if he thought Derek wouldn’t hang him over a balcony by his toes again.

As if sensing the direction his thoughts had gone, Stiles arches his neck to press a chaste kiss against Derek’s pulse, barely more than a faint brush of his lips. A pleased rumble makes the spark smile, his hand gripping Derek’s hip where a new tattoo was recently done. It was a Latin phrase, one of the few he could remember from all those lessons Deaton had made him sit through. _Fortis est ut mors dilectio_ , carefully done in black scrollwork by Scott and then burned into place with some help from Chris. _Love is as strong as death_.

“Stop thinking,” Stiles mumbles against his chest. “Everyone needs sleep, even sourwolves like you.” He chuckles softly and tightens his hold around Stiles’ middle, finally allowing his eyes to close even as his thoughts continue. Soon all of his family will be back in Beacon Hills, alive and well and so loved that he even doubted that anything could tear them away from him again. He’d love to see someone try because he had no doubt that the person responsible would be in for one hell of a fight.

 _I’m finally home_.

[Latin translation](http://latin.topword.net/?Love)


End file.
